Rolling Seasons
by Spideria
Summary: Sequel to Chasing the Forbidden. Draco's dealing in jail and Harry's rebelling by dating older men unbeknownst to Draco. When Draco finally comes for Harry, will there still be a strong enough love between the two?
1. Chapter 1

**Rolling Seasons**

**By: Spideria**

**Chapter 1**

"Trade ya a pack of cigarettes for your deck of cards."

Draco Malfoy looked over at his only real friend with a sad look in his eyes. "Did those bastards mess you up, again?"

The dark-haired man continued kicking at the courtyard rubble and merely shrugged. "I don't really care much. I wouldn't care at all, really, except they took my cards." Pulling out a fresh pack of cigarettes, the 21 year-old grinned. "So whaddya say? Pack o' cigarettes for cards?"

"Sure. But you have to light the first fag."

"And just what kind of sexual innuendo are you trying to make there, blondey? I thought we had this talk, already," the other man said with a grin. "While I have nothing against your choice of sexual preference, I, myself, have no inclination towards any of the members of our sex."

Rolling his eyes with a smile, Draco kicked lightly at the brunette's leg. "Just shut up and light it, will you. I don't have anything with me."

"Alright, alright." He opened the labeled pack and raised a thin, white cylinder to his lips with a smirk. Quickly glancing around, he reached into his left sock and pulled out a small, transparent green lighter.

After a quick puff and swift pass to the blonde, he slyly pulled out another one.

"Yes, Paul. Of _course_ you can have one of my cigarettes."

"And what a great bloke you are for letting me, Draco," Paul said, clapping a hand against Draco's shoulder in response to the older man's once again rolling eyes. "Now come here, and let me light one off ya," he mock-commanded, having already hidden his lighter back within the snug grip of his sock. "They'll kill me if I get caught with a lighter."

Draco complied, leaning forward, and pulling his lips away from the stained end of the cigarette once Paul had taken a hold of it. A few puffs later, Paul handed the cigarette back to him, and the two sat back quietly, enjoying the cancerous addiction.

It was a habit the blonde had picked up in jail. The taste was bitter, and the smell was thick and polluted, but the nicotine helped calm his nerves. Nicotine was how he'd met Paul. At a time when he'd seemed about to burst - hating jail and missing home and missing _Harry_ –, Paul had pulled him aside and offered him his first cigarette.

The blonde had hated cigarettes all his life. He'd scowled whenever whiffs of smoke clouded him in the streets, and glared at broken cigarettes littered across the roads. He hated the awful yellowing it caused people's teeth, and he could only roll his eyes when smokers turned up with lung cancer. _Well what did you expect to happen?_ He'd drawl in his mind.

But Paul had said, "Here, have a smoke, mate. Un_wind_," and just like that, he'd accepted the offered stick. He didn't know if he'd accepted out of desperation for calm, or a friend, but he'd accepted it all the same.

After that, Paul had lent him a few more cigarettes until he finally decided to buy his own pack. And after that, he and Paul had silently agreed to be friends.

"Oh, fuck," Draco let out with a sigh. Three brutishly built men were heading in their direction. He stood up, slipping his unoccupied hand casually into his pocket. "Well, I've gotta go. Listen, the cards are in my room, so I'll give them to you later."

"Sure, see you." Paul's brown eyes silently wished Draco luck, and the blonde desperately hoped for his friend's wish to come true.

Draco hurried to the basketball court (where the guards stood on watch), praying for the three men to leave him alone. They never did, of course, but Draco always tried, anyway.

Following the blonde, the man in the middle – he was an ugly looking man, his face hideously scarred; a dangerously cactus-like stubbled chin – grabbed a ball from the closest inmate, pushing him aside, and roughly threw it at Draco's chest.

Caught off guard, the ball thumped painfully against his chest, and he was only just barely able to catch the ball.

"Hey, that's my ball, punk," the gruff-looking man growled, sneering.

"I want my ball," the man said with another growl, and he launched himself at the grey-eyed man, grabbing a hold of the basketball. The two fell onto the ground, Draco letting out a pained groan, and the man dipped his head towards the blonde's ear. "And yours, too."

Draco roughly pushed the man away, but the brutish man was stronger, and he pushed Draco back down, effortlessly, slamming the orange ball harder against the other's chest. Though he struggled fiercely, he couldn't escape from underneath the man's grip.

"Alright, Alright. That's enough, Smitty!" came a guard's angry warning from a few yards away.

But the man named Smitty kept his grip. "I'll see you and your precious balls, later, my sweet little bitch."

"Smitty, don't _make_ me go over there, you piece o' shit!"

And with one perfectly concealed squeeze at the meeting point of Draco's legs, Smitty was off, his two lackeys following along behind him.

DHDHD

Harry's laughter danced through the music as the older man beside him finished his story.

"I mean, the little fucker actually thought we were a couple after that night!"

"You're such an ass. I can't believe you're laughing at some poor kid you made fall for you – I bet you were his first, too. And you're ten times worse for going along with it, Harry. He probably wasn't any older than you," Tom, the bartender said, drying a glass cup.

"Hey! What's age got to do with anything?" Harry exclaimed, mock-angrily.

"Yeah, Tom. What's age got to do with anything?" chimed in the other man.

Tom let out a chuckle. "Nothing, except that Devon, here, is 39, while you're 17, which makes you lucky I even let you hang out here."

Harry let out an immature pout and whined, "_Devon!_ Defend me!" as he latched onto said man's arm.

"Tom, leave the kid alone! He's smart enough to understand the hilarity of my story – which is more than I can say for you. If some guy picks you up at a bar – like that stud giving Harry the eye over there – " Devon said, giving his head a slight jerk in the direction of a man in his early thirties who was, indeed, watching the young brunette, "it's not an offer for a relationship. It's a quick fuck and you're done. Anyone who doesn't already have that figured out shouldn't be trying to catch a date in a bar."

"Exactly!" Harry agreed with an emphatic nod, though his eyes were straying slightly towards the aforementioned man across the bar.

A few months ago, Harry would have blanched at the thought of dating a man so much older than him, but things had changed since arriving in America.

Luckily, news of his past school year hadn't spread to his classmates, but that was as far as his luck went.

Except for a few people he randomly spoke to during classes, he didn't have any actual friends. The school was boring, all the classes were behind compared to the course material in Malkin High, and the girls kept swooning over his "accent" (_Pah,_ he'd thought the first time he'd heard that. _They_ were the ones with the accents), which forced him to come up with too many excuses for never pursuing a relationship with any of them.

From his very first day in America, he'd agreed that he would not be openly gay at his school. There was simply no way the young teen was going to take a chance like that. The difficulty in that, however, was that after the events of the past few months, he'd grown to view his sexuality as a rather large part of who he was.

Because he couldn't trust anyone enough to be completely open with them, he'd begun separating himself at school and had refused to grow close to anyone.

He'd still had Ron and Hermione, of course, but their phone calls always held one of two moods – neither of which was good. Either they were sad or awkward.

It was always hard to talk about school for all three of the teens. If Hermione and Ron spoke of their lives in England, the conversation would further remind Harry of all the things he was missing out on, and if the brunette spoke about his new life in America, he was painfully reminded of the horrible happenings that had led him there.

Inevitably, because they could not speak of either of their lives, the conversations grew awkward for lack of anything to say.

Soon, the calls had become less and less frequent until they'd dropped to a random call every few weeks, which Harry facetiously thought were just to make sure they were all still alive.

He'd separated himself from his parents – his mother especially -, refusing to forgive either of them, though he would have an occasional exchange of words with his father, whom he was at least slightly partial towards. He would never forgive his mother.

There was only one person who'd kept him going.

Within the first few weeks Harry had been in America, Draco had used the address Harry had given him to write a letter. Harry wouldn't have even found it had he not gone to get the mail that day (he was sure his mother would have thrown it out).

He'd been filled with a surge of glee he hadn't felt for weeks, and he'd immediately run to his room to rip it open and race through the words, memorizing every curve of every letter, taking it all in desperately. After having taken it all in, he'd jumped to write back, and a correspondence between the two had started.

However, like the calls from Ron and Hermione, those had soon become rare, too. Harry had written back immediately after receiving each of Draco's letters and, impatient, had sometimes written twice before Draco wrote back, until Draco hardly ever wrote back at all.

It had taken him some time – mostly because he hadn't wanted to accept it – to come to the conclusion that of course the blonde had stopped writing him letters.

Here he was, some brat little boy who'd gotten Draco stuck in jail, and he really expected Draco to be alright with it. And with that, Harry realized something significantly worse. Draco wasn't going to come back for him. After everything the two had gone through… Draco wasn't coming back.

At first, he'd cried. He'd cried endlessly. He'd wake up and feel the tears burn his eyes as he looked out his window to the un-English landscape. He'd sag his way through school, sag his way back to his new "home", then crawl up to his room and cry the rest of the day away, silent tears burning trails down his cheeks.

And then he'd turned angry. Not at Draco – no, this wasn't his fault. And not at himself, either – this was as much his fault as it was Draco's. He grew angry at everyone else he saw. It didn't matter who they were – his parents, laughing children, the neighbors walking their dogs. He hated everyone, and he wanted nothing to do with them.

For days, he'd walk around the town for hours and hours, keeping away from anyone he knew, until even that became insufficient. Then he'd traveled out further, taking busses to other towns and exploring around, until one day he'd stumbled upon a bar.

Testing his limits, he'd decided to sneak in. Who cared if he wasn't 21? He hadn't followed lawful age restrictions in London. Why should things be any different in America?

But as soon as he'd taken a seat at the bar, Tom had pounced on him. "You got an ID, kid?"

A sharp and angry retort on the tip of his tongue, Harry was saved from being kicked out of the bar as a handsome older man came around from behind him. "Relax, Tom. Give him a coke, will ya? My treat to you, kid."

"Devon, if he ain't 21, he can't drink."

"He's not! It's a goddamn coke, Tom."

"If he's gonna be another one of your little tricks, get him out of here, soon." Tom had roughly served Harry a glass of soda before walking off, grumbling.

"Thanks," Harry'd said, unsmilingly and a little uncomfortable.

"No problem. Say, what's your name, kid?"

"Harry," he'd replied before he could think to give a fake name.

"Nice."The two had fallen into a few moments of silence while Harry drank his soda, but as soon as he'd finished, the attractive older man had begun again. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Perfect." A predatory glint shone in his eyes. "Listen, Tom's not too nice with the younger ones, so what do you say you and me get out of here; go somewhere nice."

"Like where?" Harry had asked, suspiciously.

"Oh, I don't know. We could go back to my place."

He'd understood what was going on. He knew that the man hardly knew him and vice versa. He also knew what would happen if he followed the man home. The question was: did he want to go through with it.

Seeing the young brunettes hesitation, Devon had given him a seductive wink and an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder.

_Why not?_ He'd thought to himself, and he'd let himself be led out of the bar, Devon's arm around his shoulder. He had been nervous, there was no lying about that, but he'd decided to give it a try, anyway.

He'd returned home well past two in the morning that night, much to his parents chagrin, but at the age of seventeen, he'd done nothing illegal, and he didn't see that there was any way they could stop him. And so he'd gone back to that very same bar the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that.

He hadn't gone for Devon. He'd understood where they'd each stood that first night. No, this was not a search for a relationship. This was much more than that – this was a new world for him; a new way for Harry to express himself; to feel some sense of belonging.

And Devon had helped him out – with Tom's occasional frowns of disapproval, that is. It had been a surprise to the two at first, but they had grown to like Harry, as Harry had grown to like them.

And it was after those first few days that Harry had grown a new sense of being. Things weren't perfect, and he didn't have Draco, but he was alright. He was alright.

"Well, look who's coming over," Devon snickered, jabbing Harry lightly on the arm.

"Hey, I'm Steve." The man looked to be more handsome up close, a bronze tan to his skin, and a clean-shaven face. His eyes were a stunning shade of sapphire blue.

"Hello. Harry," the brunette offered with a wide grin and what he'd learned was an adorable tilt of the head.

"Is that an accent?" Steve asked with a small laugh of surprise.

"Oh, trust me. You don't wanna go for the _'I love your accent' _angle. It's way overdone." Devon cut in, with an obnoxious smirk.

Resisting the urge to glare at the immature man to his right, the blue-eyed man ignored Devon and asked, "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Sure."

And Harry idly wondered to himself if Steve was the type to do it in the bed, or rip off his clothes before they could finish closing the door.

AN: I know. A sequel, and a completely crazy sequel. I know. **_BUT _**all I can say is that this is what I envisioned happening afterwards. This is not a one-shot sequel. **_I REPEAT. THIS IS NOT A ONE-SHOT SEQUEL. _**This is going to be a many-chaptered story, and the story will develop, and, as this is still DH, Harry and Draco **_WILL_ **be meeting each other again throughout the story. I just need a few chapters to work it up. So don't hate me! Please! Just give it some time! I know this is a complete turn of events, but you have to understand that things are different, now. Draco – who, really, is still only 23 – has had to adapt to a different life in jail, and Harry – who has been completely separated from everything and everyone he's ever known is also now having to adapt and learn how to deal with things. I know you probably all hate Harry for giving up on the idea of Draco coming to visit him so often, and I know it all seems rushed, but this is just to let you get the gist of things for now. It's all going to be further explained in further chapters. But if you do have any questions that just can't wait, let me know in a review and I'll be sure to try and answer your questions throughout the next chapters as soon as I can.

Oh, also, I know this chapter seems a little rushed, but it will slow down immediately. This chapter is supposed to somewhat encase about 4 or 5 months of events (I still have a few more things to fill in with the first 4 to five months after Draco was put into jail). So sorry if you don't like how quickly I went through it – I just didn't want to be insipidly detailed and annoying. I'll explain more things as the chapters go on. (Wow, how many times have I said that, already?)

PS – I have no idea how often I'm going to update. School is especially hectic this year. My goal is to make, at the very least, at least one update per month.

Please motivate me with some happy reviews! Lots and lots of 'em!

xoxo Spideria xoxo


	2. Chapter 2

**Rolling Seasons**

**Chapter 2**

"Hello, Harry," said Ms. Miranda.

Harry gave a loose nod in response to his school guidance counselor. Though he had been fortunate enough that his classmates were told nothing of his past, that fortune did not hold true with the school faculty. Thus, since the first week in his new school, he'd been attending counselor meetings twice a week during his free period.

"So, tell me about your week so far. You look a little tired." Harry resisted a chuckle, settling for a smirk. Oh, he was tired all right. Last night, he hadn't gone home till two in the morning, having been busy with… well, whatever that guy's name was. He couldn't quite remember. He could, however, remember that he'd had quite a fantastic time.

"Well?"

Harry shrugged. Ms. Miranda gave a frustrated sigh. "Alright, well let's start with something small, then. Talk to me about your classes. Have you improved your grades, yet?"

"I guess." _I'd much rather think about other things… like last night, _he thought to himself. He'd come home to see his mother asleep on the couch, waiting for him. The first few times he'd come home so late, his parents had both screamed at him. They'd told him he wasn't to do it again and that if he continued, they'd stop him from going out altogether. After a while, though, they'd been forced into a reluctant resignation.

Harry wouldn't listen to his parents. Their word meant nothing to him. Now, his father simply accepted Harry's late-night adventures and slept, while Lily also quietly accepted it, albeit, from the living room couch where she would wait for him to come home; to make sure that he did get home.

It hurt Harry sometimes, seeing his mother look so tired and small. When she was able to stay awake until he arrived, she would give a small sigh of relief before standing and walking to her room without hugging him(the first time she'd tried to hug him, he'd swiftly sidestepped her and walked away); without a word. The nights when she couldn't stay awake, Harry would be forced to look at the sad-looking figure – much like last night.

Sometimes he almost wanted to rest a hand on her shoulder and say, "Hey, everything's ok. We're alright." But then he'd force himself to remember why he never did, and everything would come flooding back to him.

"Well, how about your teachers?" Harry was brought back to the present and rolled his eyes. Of course she was asking about his teachers. She always asked about his teachers. Because, of course, since he'd fallen in love with someone who'd _happened_ to be a teacher, he was, _of course_, going to date all other teachers, as well.

He refused to dignify the question with an answer. He couldn't blame her entirely, though. All the other teachers thought exactly the same way. What with the way they always kept just enough distance from him; the way they would talk to him without smiling too much or standing too closely. They didn't think he noticed. No, they didn't think his teenage mind was quite capable of noting such _fine_ details.

"Any new friends?" she tried again. Yes, of course she wanted him to have friends. Why wouldn't she? Maybe then he would find a boyfriend to keep him away from the teachers. Or better yet, a girlfriend. Well, that particular thought wasn't completely fair. They'd spoken about Harry's sexuality before and she didn't look at that specific aspect of his life as a problem. In fact, she'd spoken to him about coming out to a few "friends" in the school, before. He, of course, had kindly declined.

"Would you like to talk about Draco?"

"No, I would not." Harry's vehement reply had slipped out before he'd taken the time to think.

"It seems that he still invokes quite a lot of emotion in you."

Though the brunette struggled to return to his former, cool façade, he couldn't keep the slight sneer off his lips.

"Harry, are the two of you still… in contact?"

"Sorry, but you'll have to accept my apology if I don't see that that's any of your business."

"I'm not trying to be nosy, Harry. I'm just trying to help."

"Funny. I don't quite remember asking for it."

"Excuse me, young man." She began in a low tone. "I may be trying to help you, but that most certainly does not give you the right to speak to me so rudely. Watch your tone."

Harry simply glared. There was nothing else he could do. He'd gotten her to this point before. Every once in a while, she'd just snap (well, as much as she ever snapped) and drop the eternally-loving counselor act. When that happened, she wasn't above giving him a detention or two.

After allowing a few minutes to wade through her anger, he asked, "Can I go? I have a physics test I'd like to study for."

Still too angry to speak, she simply tightened her lips and waved her hand dismissively – a silent "get out of my face."

"Screw studying," he later muttered to himself as he entered the boy's bathroom to sneak out through the window.

DHDHDH

"Yeah, back away, you little buggers," Paul quietly mumbled to Draco with a smirk as they walked, uninterrupted, through several groups of people on the way to their cells. Draco simply shook his head with a small smile.

Anyone else who had been in jail for as short an amount of time as them - less than a year - would have been roughly pushed around and brutally bullied. But with Smitty having claimed Draco _his_ toy from the start, no one else dared touch him, or, for that matter, anyone _with _Draco, which was only ever Paul.

Still, there _had_ been one unfortunate fool to ignore Smitty's claim. It had happened near the completion of Draco's first month in jail.

It had been a completely unnecessary fight, but then again, most fights in jail - as Draco had come to realize - were. One minute Draco had been walking over to see Paul in his cell, and the next, he was being shoved into a wall. "Sorry, did that hurt?" the man had asked with a laugh.

Not in the mood to get into trouble, Draco had simply swallowed back his tongue and started walking again. The man, however, didn't seem to be in the mood to let Draco get away quite so easily. He pushed him once again.

This time, Draco had acted on reflex and smacked the hand away. The man took this as his cue and, with an angry snarl of "Why, you little…", threw a heavy punch at the blonde's temple, leaving him sprawled across the floor. He had then proceeded to spit on the fallen blonde before muttering a chuckled, "bitch" and smugly walking off.

Unfortunately for the man, however, Smitty had witnessed the entire brawl.

The next day, he'd mysteriously turned up badly beaten and had been quickly sent to the hospital. Equally mysterious, Smitty had had to get his broken hand set in a cast. No one had touched Draco since.

"Ah, I love walking with you. I mean, you've got to admit, Draco, there _is_ one good thing about that arse hole's obsession with you." Draco merely shrugged, his smile quickly disappearing. Though Paul didn't know the full extent to which Smitty took things out on his friend, he realized he'd gone too far and quickly changed the subject.

"So, we're still going to play a few rounds of cards tonight, right?"

"Yeah, though I don't see how you can still enjoy beating me after the seven millionth time."

"Oh, how greatly you underestimate the glory of victory, my friend."

With a snort, Draco walked into his cell and said, "Right. I'll see you later."

"See you."

Draco took a seat on his bed and contemplated taking a nap right on the spot. His cell was unlocked, however, and, protected by Smitty's claim or not, he still didn't feel comfortable being even slightly unaware of his surroundings during the day. So, instead, he gave a tired sigh and, after a moment of thought, bent down slightly and pulled a few loose-leaf papers and a pencil from underneath his mattress.

He tapped his pencil against one of the pages for a few moments, but no words came to mind. He hadn't written to Harry in many months, he knew, and Harry, in that time, had sent him at least three or four… none of which he'd replied to.

Draco had, of course, felt guilty, and after a month in which Harry had stopped writing him as well, he'd felt even worse, but the blonde simply couldn't find anymore words to say to his… boyfriend? Lover? Whatever it was that they were.

It had come so easily at first. He had immediately written Harry a letter, mailing it with the new house address Harry had given him, not even bothering to think of the consequences if one of his parents had found it first. He'd written of his continuing love for Harry and the great things that would come after he was let out, but the hope and optimism had slowly dissipated. As each new day passed in jail, it grew more and more difficult to keep his letters happy and confident.

He grew evermore frustrated, but he refused to write Harry anything less than cheerful. He knew the hardship Harry was going through with all the sudden changes, and he refused to add to that pain. But then, one dark night with Smitty, he'd lost every last shred of motivation.

And so, he'd simply stopped writing Harry.

For a while, he didn't even try. He simply went through his daily routine, dealt with Smitty's frequent interruptions, and went to bed. Then he'd wake up and start again.

After a few weeks, he'd decided it wasn't fair to Harry, and began trying. He'd lie awake at night for hours, figuring out what he'd write; what he'd tell Harry; how he could possibly word things to make them look for the better. By the time he fell asleep each night, he'd have the letter perfectly composed, word for word. But each time he actually held the pencil in his hand, nothing came out.

Every day, he told himself that today would be the day he'd write a letter to Harry, and every day, his thoughts proved false. That did not, however, stop this day from being another day in which he told himself that this day was the day he'd write Harry.

At the very least, he would write the opening line._ Hey, Harry. _

It was something. He bit the inside of his lip for a moment before continuing. It came slowly, but soon, he'd written a full sentence. And then a second, and a third, until he decided he'd reached the end of a full paragraph. He could do this, he thought to himself. He could write this letter.

But, as luck would have it, he was unable to get past the first word of his second paragraph.

Two large arms pressed down on the mattress on either side of Draco. A voice from behind whispered into his ear, "Well, what've we got here?"

Before Draco could think to pull the letter away, one of the large arms quickly snatched it away. Draco turned to glare at the person he already knew it to be - Smitty. "Give it back," he angrily seethed.

"I don't think I will, darling." Draco made a grab for it, but as always, was one second too slow, and the burly man easily sidestepped him. "_Harry_?" he asked mockingly. "And who could this possibly be? Hmm? Your lover, you little pouf?" chuckling to himself, he began to deridingly read the letter aloud. "_I don't know what to say, exactly. I suppose 'I'm sorry' would be a start. I really am. I don't have a good excuse for not writing you. But I can tell you this: I miss you, and I love you more than…" _Smitty suddenly stopped, his stance hardening, and his eyes narrowing fiercely. He continued the letter in his mind and as each word processed through his brain, he grew further enraged.

Draco, too frightened to move, could do nothing but sit in silent prayer as he watched Smitty's anger bring panic-inducing trembles throughout his body.

When it seemed that the enraged man had finally finished reading the unfinished letter, he turned his gaze to glare at Draco. The stare sent chills through the blonde.

DHDHDH

Harry sauntered easily into the bar. "Well, hello, Tom," he said, taking a seat at the bar.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Well, someone's certainly in a nasty bit of a mood, today."

"It's 1:30 on a Thursday. Why the hell aren't you in school?"

"I ditched," the young brunette replied with a shrug.

"Get out."

"What?"

"I said, 'get out.' Get up, get out, and get your fucking ass back in school."

"I can't. Everyone there's a piece of fucking shit."

"Well I'm sure as hell not gonna treat you any better."

"Oh, come on, Tom." He began to whine with a pout. "This is the first time I've ever even skipped!"

"And it's gonna be the last one, too. In fact, it's not even going to count as an entire incident, since you're getting your ass back in school right now." Tom said lightly, an easy smile on his lips, and a deathly glare in his eyes.

"You're kidding."

A narrowing of the bartender's eyes was his only reply.

DHDHDH

"Well, you're just a nasty little whore, aren't you?" Smitty snarled, stepping closer to the trembling form. "You're just a bloody slut," he continued, barking the last word. Draco gave a slight start, leaning back in an attempt to distance himself from the seething beast.

"I think maybe I'll have to teach you a little lesson." The whisper grabbed a chilling hold on the blonde and jaggedly ripped into him, freezing his innards until, with the angry crumbling of the letter, he was left completely immobile.

DHDHDH

Scoffing, Harry stood to stomp out angrily. How _dare_ Tom kick him out? What the bloody hell was he supposed to do _now_? He wasn't left questioning for very long, however.

A man walking in locked eyes with the shorter boy. Harry smiled slyly to himself.

Not only was the man impossibly handsome - with stylishly gelled hair and sapphire-blue eyes - , but for once, he actually seemed to be much closer to Harry's own age - well, closer, that is, than any of the guys Harry had recently been with. The man couldn't be any older than, perhaps, twenty-seven, possibly younger.

Quite a delightful treat. How could Harry resist? After all, he had nothing else to do for the rest of the day.

With a smirk, he sent the man an inviting wink.

DHDHDH

Smitty gave Draco's collar a painful jerk and propped the fairer man against the wall with a painful _thud_.

Grabbing a tight hold of the blonde's hair, he gave a sharp yank, eliciting a pained hiss from his victim, before pressing his body tightly against the other. His sour breath scraped over Draco, filling his nostrils with a burning sensation, and his every touch made the blonde want to shrink away in disgust.

He ghosted his lips over Draco's before breathing in deeply as he moved along the other man's jaw and up to his ear. "I'm going to make you wish you'd never met that slimy bastard, _Harry_," he chewed out the final word disgustedly. "In fact, I'm going to make sure you never even so much as _think_ about that little fucker again." And with that, he forcefully flipped Draco's form, shoving his face into the wall, and reaching for his pants.

DHDHDH

"Let's get out of here."

"I'm sorry?" asked the man, slightly confused.

"You _do_ want me, don't you?"

"I…er…I was…just going to-"

"Fuck me into bloody oblivion."

The man stopped just short of a squeak before finally giving a raucous laugh. "Well, aren't you one for euphemisms."

"No sense in beating around the bush. So, what do you say? You got a place around here?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Perfect."

The brunette looped his arm through the other man's, and the two strolled out of the bar without another glance back.

**A/N:** … I cannot tell you how unbelievably hard it was for me to sit down and type this out. For the longest time, it was just another filler chapter with some questions being answer, which pissed me off to no end, so… after _much_ plotting out and rewriting, I've managed to make this into an actual non-filler chapter. Wow. I hope you guys enjoyed it. I actually do like the content I've put into this one - even though sometimes it feels a bit too dark for my own taste.

Anyway, it's 2:30 in the morning, and I'm too tired to write too much more, so I'm just going to give a quick apology for the format of the chapter and go to bed: I guess I saw the quick changes between Harry and Draco towards the end of the chapter like a movie in my head with quick scene flashes, but I don't think I was able to bring it through in writing, so… sorry? I don't know. I'm really tired.

It's just really difficult to write the chapters smoothly since Harry and Draco both have two completely different stories for me to write. Hopefully, I'll figure out a way to better format the next chapter.

As always, please review!! (And thank you for all the wonderful reviews I've already received! I appreciate them so unbelievably much. There _have_ been a lot of questions, but they'll all answer themselves as the story goes on.)

xoxo Spideria xoxo


	3. Chapter 3

**Rolling Seasons**

**By: Spideria**

**Chapter 3**

_Harry clutched tightly at the curly brown locks between his fingers. A moan of pleasure erupted from the older man above him before he dove down to capture Harry's lips in a hungry kiss. He smiled at the man's almost desperate need for him._

_Another easy catch at the bar._

_As the man pulled up to gaze down at Harry and greedily lap up his youthful beauty(as they often did), he caught a glimpse of the man's dark brown eyes - almost black. A small chill ran down Harry's spine, but he shook it off as impatient want, and pulled the man back down to him._

_This kiss was once again fervent and eager, and Harry relished every second. _

_The bed beneath him was quite comfortable, he was glad to note, and he quickly pulled away slightly to tug off his now burdening shirt. The man did the same before crushing his lips back to Harry's and reaching for the boy's waistband._

_But suddenly, the man tightly hugged against him felt somewhat thinner, and the kiss became more relaxed and…caring? His hands pulled away from Harry's waistband and instead roamed up his torso, slowly feeling around, carefully savoring his every contour._

_Completely thrown off balance by this strange, unfamiliar occurrence, Harry gently pulled away to look into the black-brown eyes only to see that they had changed. Instead, they were now a dark, smoky grey, and the face above him was younger, kinder, smiling comfortingly at him._

_"Draco…"_

_"Shh," the blonde said into Harry's lips as he resumed the tender kiss and hugged Harry's torso more tightly to his own. _

_"But I thought…"_

_"Hmm…"_

_"I thought you were…"_

_"Well you thought wrong," Draco whispered with a twinkling smile. "I'm here. I'm right here. With you."_

_Harry leaned up, crying, and took Draco's lips desperately, wanting to rememorize the feel of his soft lips. "I love you," he whispered through the tearful kiss. "I love you so much."_

_"Shh, Harry. Why are you crying?"_

_"Don't leave me, Draco. Don't leave me, again. Don't leave me."_

"Don't leave me," Harry mumbled, and awoke to a tear-stained pillow. He gasped slightly, confused, almost forgetting his dream before the memory hit him with a pang. Suddenly, he felt dizzy as a shock of emotion rushed through his body and a sob wracked his chest, the tears burning fiery trails down his cheeks.

Inside, he felt an icy emptiness.

He curled into a fetal position, cradling his mourning cries. Then he hugged himself tightly, his digging fingers burrowing into his back, and he was reminded of a man who did the very same thing to him a few nights before. An explosion of disgust suddenly hit his body.

He wanted to retch at the now disturbing memory and frantically scratched at his body, trying to scrape away the burning skin. So many men had touched him in the past few months; so many men and none of them Draco. None of them.

He wanted to rip off his skin and grow a new, clean, untouched one. A new one that he would save for Draco, and only Draco. He scraped and scraped until he saw sprinkles of blood swell along his arms and helplessly sobbed at the fruitlessness of his actions.

DHDHDH

Paul didn't mention the finger-shaped bruises along the back of Draco's neck. Instead, they walked down the lunch line in silence and then found a table.

"Wanna play a game of cards?"

Draco simply shook his head in reply, his eyes stormy and his mouth set in a thin, taught line.

"Well, then do you wanna-" Draco cut off Paul's attempts with a firm "no."

The two sat in silence while Paul picked at his food and Draco glared into nothingness just to Paul's right. The brunette didn't know what had happened, but he wasn't completely in the dark. He knew, at least _who_ had done it - no one else would be crazy enough to mess with what Smitty liked to refer to as "his property."

It always pained Paul to see Draco with freshly bloomed bruises on his body, but there was nothing he could do. With a wiry frame and no "henchmen" to fight for him, he was of no help to the blonde. All he was ever able to do, was play along with Draco and pretend nothing had happened because that's what worked for Draco.

But not today; not last night.

Last night, when Paul had gone back for that game of cards Draco had previously agreed to, he'd seen the man with bloodshot eyes, shaking all over - whether in anger or shock, he still didn't know - and had quietly walked back to his cell to leave the blonde to himself.

He could only imagine what that bastard Smitty had done to him.

He'd hoped that, perhaps, as always, Draco would have dealt with himself emotionally by the morning and that they would continue on, pretending things were alright. It was the only way either of them knew how to deal with these things. That, however, hadn't happened, and Paul could only wait and see what his friend would do next.

Draco finally spoke. "What do you think would happen to a guy who killed someone, if he was already in jail?"

Had it been any other circumstance, Paul would have laughed; would have taken it for one of those stupid jokes that don't carry any significance. But this was not a joke.

"Listen to me, Draco. You've been on good behavior for too long to screw this up. If you keep up the obedient role, you'll be out of here in _four_ months. Don't fuck it up for some worthless bastard."

Draco merely shook his head, an angry look in his eyes.

DHDHDH

Harry hadn't known what to do the next morning. He'd felt groggy and sore, and the freckled scabs along his arms only made him want to hide away forever.

Instead, however, he'd gotten dressed, and gone to school.

Maybe he'd thought concentrating on his schoolwork would mean he couldn't think about the night before; couldn't think about Draco, but he was wrong. Thoughts of Draco were everywhere in his mind, and he had to constantly struggle to keep his emotions in check. He could only be grateful he didn't have a meeting with his counselor today.

He didn't want to sleep around, anymore. He didn't want to hunt for guys at the bar, anymore. But he didn't want to go home, and he didn't know anywhere else to go. If he wasn't having fun at the bar, what else could he do? Could he really just waste his life away at home while the rest of the world went on having fun without him? So as day rolled into night, Harry headed to the bar.

"Harry!" Devon called, cheerily.

Harry gave a weak smile in return and slumped into a stool beside the older man.

"Aw. Why so down?"

Harry only shrugged, staring at his folded hands on the wooden counter.

"I know what'd cheer you up. You need a good fuck!" Devon wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulder and began calling out, "Hey, anyone looking for a good fuck, tonight, I've got-"

"Devon, stop," Harry said tiredly, pushing the man's arm off.

"What's the matter with you?"

"Leave him alone, will you?" Tom said, placing a glass of soda in front of Harry. He gave a smile in thanks.

"Fine. _You're _the bartender. _You're_ supposed to be talking him through his fucking problems, anyway."

"So then find some trick and let me do my job."

"Sounds good to me. Harry, let me know when your teenage crisis is over, and we'll get a couple of cute guys together."

Harry couldn't even muster up the beginnings of a smile, this time.

"You wanna talk?"

"Not really."

"I didn't think so. Just do me a favor and stay out of trouble, will you? And if you really are feeling this down, take my advice - don't go home with anyone, tonight. There's nothing worse than dealing with your problems through sex."

Harry gave a hollow laugh. It was a little too late for that, he thought.

He saw someone take Devon's chair and turned his head away. He hoped the guy would get the hint and leave him alone.

"Hello, there." But then again, when did things ever go the way he wanted?

"I don't want to have sex with you," he said, without looking at the man.

A chuckle. "Hunh. Still as blunt as always, I see."

There was something familiar about the voice. Turning to look at the man, he realized it was the man from last night - the younger-than-usual guy. For a moment, he simply stared, puzzled. This was certainly a first. No one ever came back for "seconds" in a manner of speaking, or at least, not the very next night. When Harry merely raised a brow in question, the man explained.

"I'm not here for sex. I just figured since we missed out on the whole 'getting to know each other' phase yesterday, we could make up for it now."

What was this man thinking? Was he another one of those people hopelessly oblivious to the meaning of one night stands?

"I'm Sebastion."

After a few moments of silence, he urged, "and you are…?"

Too tired to tell the man to fuck off with enough vehemence, he sighed and replied, "Harry."

"That's cool."

"How old are you, anyway?" It had been on Harry's mind since the moment he'd seen Sebastion.

"How old do you think I am?"

Harry didn't like this game. He was in no mood to beat around the bush with silly antics. He waited, glaring, for the man to give up and just tell him, but when Sebastion just continued waiting with a smile, Harry finally said, "Twenty-seven."

"Ouch. A little old. I'm only twenty-four."

Harry almost wanted to smirk. He could believe the man was twenty-four. It wasn't very far-fetched at all.

"What about you? Please tell me I didn't become a criminal last night."

"You're safe. Seventeen."

"Hmm, still pretty young."

"So what? I'm not trying to fucking win you over. If you don't like it, fuck off." Harry suddenly felt a little energy.

Sebastion laughed again. "I didn't say I didn't like it."

Harry shrugged his shoulders to push away his embarrassment at having snapped so unnecessarily.

"You still in school?" Sebastion asked.

Harry glared. "What do you think?"

"I'm honestly too scared of what you'll do to me if I get the wrong answer."

What would have been a scowl morphed into a small chuckle and Harry just shook his head.

Maybe this guy wasn't all that bad. A bit annoying, but he was at least entertaining. And so the two spoke on for some time until finally Sebastion announced he was heading off. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he waited for the sleazy offer to go home with Sebastion. What came instead left him speechless.

Sebastion leaned forward and gave Harry a chaste kiss.

Harry expected to back away in revulsion after last night's dream, but he merely sat there. It wasn't Draco's kiss, true, but it wasn't so terrible, either. It wasn't even rough or greedy like the kisses from guys at the bar usually were.

Then Sebastian pulled back and flashed him a grin.

"See you," he said, and walked away, leaving Harry to stare after him in confusion.

**A/N: **No, I'm not dead, to the few people that asked. And here's your update for proof. 8P

xoxo Spideria xoxo


	4. Chapter 4

**Rolling Seasons**

**Chapter 4**

**By: Spideria**

"Agh!" Draco let out a moan of pain as Smitty slammed him into the wall by his cell.

"You love it when I get rough with yeh, don't you?" He nipped lightly at the lobe of Draco's left ear.

"Draco," Paul called softly from the side. Though he'd tried to have his friend avoid Smitty, the man was a bloody shadow, following Draco wherever he went. All he could hope was that the knowledge of his presence nearby would keep Draco calm enough to control himself; calm enough not to be stupid and try to fight back.

"You shut up, yeh nosy little bastard," Smitty spat out at him, before turning back to Draco and licking along the length of his jaw. Paul thanked the painful, tightening hold on each of his arms from Smitty's "cronies". The reminder kept him from loosing control, himself.

"Listen, Smitty. Why don't you just leave him alone, eh? He aint lookin' for trouble."

"_WHAT_ did I _tell_ you?" A swift punch in the gut wrenched a groan of a reply from Paul. "_Shut_ up."

Draco leaped forward to aid his friend only to be effortlessly shoved back against the wall, once again. He almost struggled; _almost_.

"You're such a sexy little cunt, aren't you? _My_ sexy little cunt."

"Draco," Paul weakly wheezed out.

"I'm fine." His tone was cool, and the faint lines of a smile made their way to his lips.

"Yeah, see? He's fine. He _likes_ being my little whore." Smitty crushed his lips into Draco's. His eyes hardened, but the light smile stayed in place. Even as Smitty proceeded to dip his hand underneath Draco's waistband, he remained calm, for he had gotten himself together again, and he knew this would all be over one day.

"Aw, fucking shit, man!" Paul said, completely appalled. He'd always suspected, even known, but to _see_ it take place right before his very eyes… He had no idea what to do. There was nothing he _could_ do.

"Come on, man, leave 'im alone! Leave him alone!"

"I thought I told you to shut up," but the venom was lacking, as Smitty wasn't paying very much attention to the shaking man. He bit Draco's lip hard enough to draw blood and slammed his hips into the blonde's, moving his hand around (still underneath the waistband) to grab at the man's buttocks.

"Shit, man! Shit! Fucking shit! _STOP!_" He didn't know how Draco was still in control; couldn't believe he'd even tried to keep Draco under control. He, himself, couldn't take this, anymore. He kicked and flailed at the two men holding him, even began clacking his teeth together in an attempt to bite one of them -- anything to get to Draco and pull that god-awful man off his friend.

His only success was several severe blows to his back and head as the two men struggled to keep him under control.

"Paul, stop! I'm fine. Let this bastard do what he wants. I don't care." Of course, he did. He cared a lot. He cared so much, he knew that, under the right circumstances, he'd easily have killed the man with his bare hands -- killed the man slowly and painfully. But he wasn't under the right circumstances, and so he had to endure it. For a short time more, at least.

And thank God he had gotten the willpower to endure it. For, despite Smitty's many attempts to stop him, he'd written that letter to Harry. Underneath the dim prison lights in the midst of the night, he'd poured his heart out to Harry.

It had been his own, silent _Fuck you_ to Smitty.

How determinedly Smitty had tried to stop him. Since that night when he'd caught him writing a letter to Harry, Smitty had become increasingly possessive and abusive. He randomly (and quite frequently) attacked Draco from behind, painfully squeezing his neck to the point of blurred vision and shoving him into the nearest, solid object. He'd even taken his anger out to the point of playing out his normally private sexual assaults out in the open for all to see -- a public claiming.

He wanted not only Draco, but everyone else to know that the man was his.

The few times Smitty was not around, Draco was sure the crazy bastard had people watching him, which is why he'd inconspicuously slipped the letter to Paul instead of sending it, himself.

It hadn't been difficult at all for him to write the letter, this time. He'd needed to start a correspondence to Harry, once again. He'd realized that only with something to look forward to would he be able to keep his cool for the rest of the four months.

So maybe he might let his anger and sadness slip into his letters every once in a while. He'd come to the conclusion that the two were in this together, and that meant in every way. Just as he'd been there for Harry in his complaints of his new life in America, he was sure Harry would be there for him in his complaints in jail.

All he needed was for Harry to write back.

It didn't matter _what_ Harry wrote back. He wasn't looking for award-winning advice or beautifully crafted words of comfort. He just wanted a sign of Harry's existence; of their ongoing relationship.

Smitty pushed Draco on all fours and yanked his pants to his knees. A heart-wrenching sob ripped its way out of Paul's throat.

But it was ok. It was all going to be ok. As soon as Draco got a letter back from Harry, it would all be alright.

DHDHDH

The plate of breakfast to sat untouched. Day after day, she set that plate of breakfast, and though he never touched it; though Harry refused to so much as acknowledge her presence, she set that plate of breakfast on the table each morning hoping that one morning - perhaps _this_ morning - would be the morning he sat down to eat so they could return to the loving, happy family they had once been.

Not that Harry was the only impediment to their once happy family.

James might as well have skipped breakfast, too. The only proof he ever left of his presence - the proof that let Lily know she wasn't going insane with hallucinations - was the scant bites in the meal. He never spoke, never kissed her good morning, never made a sound - save, perhaps, a momentary clearing of his throat. In those moments, Lily would look up, hoping it a prelude to a conversation. It never was.

This one wouldn't be. And yet, at James's guttural "ahem", she looked up, anyway. Barely a minute had passed since he'd taken a seat, but already, he was straightening his tie in that way that always let her know he was about to get up and leave.

Three… two… one… The chair legs scraped against the floor as he pushed back and straightened to a standing position. He gave a curt nod before turning, and she stared after his retreating back till the door closed behind him.

And that stupid, goddamned, _BLOODY_ _plate_ still sat there, untouched, _MOCKING_ her!

The plate hit the wall with an unsatisfying clank as the food flew sloppily through the air. Too bad it had only been plastic. The shatter of glass would have given her some form of relief.

Her shaking form spewed tears through her tightly closed lids for only a moment before she quickly inhaled a deep breath, roughly rubbing at hers eyes with the backs of her hands. She breathed out and straightened her blouse before standing to clear the table.

At least plastic didn't break into eighty-seven scattered pieces she'd have to carefully pick up and broom away.

_Oh hell,_ she thought, as she looked at the mess of food she'd made, a piece of scrambled egg quivering over the edge of the table before it fell to the floor with a silent '_plop.'_ Now she'd probably be late for work.

She hurried to clean the mess and wash the dishes - if she could not control the ideal of her family, she would at least make sure to enforce some sort of control over what she could - before rushing out the door to work.

On her way, she quickly pulled out the mail from the mailbox and began flipping through them as she walked to her car. She idly remembered how Harry had always gotten the mail the first few weeks they'd been in America, but even that small act had stopped after some time.

It was entirely unbeknownst to her that Harry had stopped checking the mail when he had stopped believing Draco would write him, again.

As she stepped into the car, she tossed the letters onto the passenger's seat, deciding to finish looking through them later. She couldn't spare any more time, arriving to work even later than she already was.

"Oh bloody…" she muttered to herself, as she realized she couldn't remember whether or not she'd left her driver's license in the glove compartment. Hurriedly leaning over to check, her eye caught one particular letter sticking out from the pile of bills. A uniquely distinct, perfectly flowery cursive littered the envelope.

Her heart caught in her throat and she vaguely thought she tasted copper as she froze, planning out her next move. It couldn't possibly be… what she thought it was…. Could it?

Her license forgotten, she gingerly reached down and pulled the letter out from underneath the pile. There was no return address, merely her own, and _To: Harry Potter_ written at the top. Apprehensively, she slid the tip of her nail underneath the front flap and opened the envelope. Work be damned.

Her hands shaking, she pulled out the slightly unevenly folder letter. Then, with a deep breath, she unfolded it and began to read. A dry sob escaped her lips. _How_ had he found their address? She threw her hand over her mouth as another sob threatened to break loose.

She laid her head against the seat and stared up in thought.

She didn't need to read the rest of the letter; didn't want to. She'd read enough to know who it was from.

What was she going to do? Could she possibly give the letter to Harry?

"Oh, right, Lily. Just send your son into the bloody casket," she scoffed to herself.

She wouldn't have thought to show Harry the letter at all; wouldn't have wanted to even slightly encourage their relationship… It was just that Harry had been _so_ difficult to speak to, lately. Or rather, _try_ to speak to.

But maybe, just maybe if she showed him the letter; maybe if she told him that she was sorry and if she possibly let him respond to Malfoy's letter… maybe Harry would speak to her, again. Maybe her son would tell her that he loved her, and hug her the way he did before all the problems began.

Maybe a mere correspondence with Malfoy wouldn't be so bad.

Sure, Harry had been sad and confused when he'd been with Malfoy, but at least he'd still been himself.

Now… now he was just… Well, she hated to think it, but the way he'd been acting, he seemed to have become a hoodlum with what must have been his new American "buddies." Staying out till all hours of the night doing God knows what.

Drugs. That was probably it. Either that, or alcohol.

All those nights…

All those nights; night after night, she pictured him completely pissed out of his mind in the basement of one of his teenage classmates' houses.

But at least… at least he was with children his own age. Growing up in the proper way… ?

Lily dug her nails into her skull, clutching thick tufts of hair between her fingers as she struggled to make sense of things.

True, drugs and alcohol were not the _proper_ way to grow up, but it was at least _safer_ than being with some perverted adult who only wanted to take advantage of him; only wanted to make her son _think_ he loved him.

If her choice was between having her son drink a couple of beers with some friends his own age or having him have sex with a slimeball of a pervert… clearly, she _had_ to choose the beer. It was the only logical choice.

So many teens drank now-a-days. It was a _phase_; a sense of initiation into adulthood; into _free_dom. He would soon grow out of it, and things would go back to normal. But sex with such an older man? That was life-altering; would scar him for life. He'd never be able to return to normalcy, again.

No. She couldn't let him see this letter. She would dispose of it as soon as she got to work. And if the smarmy bastard dared to send another letter, she'd have to once again deal with matters in a more _law_ful way.

She had given up too much for all this to start again. She had worked _so_ hard to protect her son. She loved her son too much to let harm befall him. She was not going to let Malfoy corrupt her son's mind once again.

DHDHDH

"Harry!" Sebastion called as he walked up to take a seat next to Harry, who wordlessly nodded in greeting. The boy wasn't surprised. For the past two weeks since they'd had that strange, quick kiss, Sebastion had come back at least every other day to see Harry.

They hadn't had sex again, and other than occasional, unexpected kisses (Harry never felt quite accustomed to the simple kisses without promise of sex, afterwards), their physical contact was kept to a minimum, so the man's presence didn't much bother him. It was just… sometimes Harry had to wonder if this guy had a life, or what?

Well, of course he did. Harry knew that. In the many times they'd scene each other over the last two weeks, Harry had come to learn quite a lot about Sebastion, even if Harry, himself, refused to open up.

Apparently, he was still in college, though he was interning. He was studying to become a graphics designer.

Furthermore, he was working on a side project of his own that he couldn't wait to finish. It was a short cartoon film whose name he still didn't know, but as soon as he figured it out, he was sure it would be absolutely fantastic.

He'd never been to Europe, was scared to death of the water - deep water, that, is. He'd never learned how to swim - and, quite unexpectedly, he was vegetarian. He consented, though, that he was not the best vegetarian in the world, since he'd eat a pop tart even if it was made of gelatin.

"_Gelatin," Harry had asked, confused._

"_Well, sure. Gelatin's made out of animal bones and pig hooves and all kinds of nasty things."_

_Harry had grimaced at the thought. Maybe it was a good thing all foods weren't always quite so thoroughly explained to him._

Sebastion was a strange mix of things, and though Harry wouldn't say he was _captivated_ by the man, he would say that he was at least _interested_ by him.

"You know," Sebastion suddenly said. Harry looked at him with a quirked eyebrow to show Sebastion had his attention. "We spend so much time together, and I mean, we're practically _lovers," _Sebastion smirked at the word, but Harry didn't know that he quite liked that. In fact, he was a bit riled by it.

It was one thing to simply spend time with Sebastion, but to call them lovers… As dramatic as he knew it must sound even in his own head, that word would only be reserved for him and Draco. Sebastion was getting the wrong idea completely, if he believed that he and Harry would actually grow into something… into something _more_.

But Sebastion missed Harry's internal battle and finished his sentence. "So when are you going to let me take you out on a proper date outside of this bar?"

Harry nearly spit out his soda. All those times he'd watched silly cartoons spit out their milk, or orange juice, or whatever other liquid they'd been drinking…. Harry could finally reciprocate their feelings. Was Sebastion honestly being serious?

At first, Harry was simply shocked, unable to believe Sebastion's question. However, the shock quickly dissipated into overwhelming anger and shame. Suddenly, Harry didn't feel so good about himself. Sebastion's proposal made him feel like a traitor to Draco. Yes, he'd had sex plenty of times since he'd gotten to America, but that had been strictly physical - never had it been emotional.

For Sebastion to propose that they went on an actual date together - something reserved only for _lovers_, as Sebastion would put it - was to propose that Harry had officially abandoned Draco. And how _dare_ he insinuate such a thing. Who was he to tell Harry he no longer loved Draco? It didn't matter to Harry that Sebastion knew nothing of Draco. In his overwhelmed mind, he thought Sebastion _should_ know.

He'd show that insensitive jerk.

"Go on date with you?" he spat out.

"Um… yeah."

"Sorry, but you're deeply misguided if you think I'd ever go on a date with the likes of you."

"What? Hold on. I'm confused, here, Harry."

"Why don't you just pick your fat arse up and sod the _fuck_ off?"

"Harry, what are you talking ab-"

"I said, 'fuck off!'" And with that, he roughly shoved Sebastion off the stool.

The muscles in Sebastion's jaw were dangerously clenched. Shaking his head, he ground out, "Fine. Whatever," before stalking off.

"Fucking arse hole," Harry muttered to himself.

"Do you have any idea how fucking ridiculous you just acted?"

"Oh, bloody bullocks. Not now, Tom."

"Harry, all he did was ask you on a date, and you fucking flipped the fuck out."

"Look, I don't have time for this. I'm out of here," but Tom quickly grabbed a hold of his arm.

"Argh! Let me go! I said let go of me!"

"Listen, Harry. It's your life, so you do what you want with it, but just listen to me for a second. You're an ok kid, but you're going to shit. You've _been_ going to shit. This guy…. This guy seems like he might just be the thing you need right now."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I see you on the nights he's over. I'm not saying you're crazy in love or anything, but he makes you a decent kid. You don't go home with drunken dickheads on the nights he's here."

"Yeah, so what? It's called common courtesy not to leave in the middle of a conversation. It doesn't mean anything."

"Maybe not, but that's one more night you're not out there getting fucked by God knows who just to try and forget about whatever the fuck it is that's eating at you."

"Shut up! You don't even know what you're talking about!"

"All I'm saying is that maybe you should give this guy a chance."

Harry began struggling to get loose once again, but Tom had nothing more to say to him. He let go, and Harry stumbled back a few paces.

"Fuck you." Harry growled out. He quickly stomped out of the bar and into the fresh air. He expected some relief, but instead, the night air fell heavily onto him, wrenching the breath from him in the form of a sob. His tears burned all the way down.

"Goddamnit!" He slammed the side of his fist against the brick wall behind him.

**xoxo Spideria xoxo**


	5. Chapter 5

**Rolling Seasons**

**Chapter 5**

**By: Spideria**

The crisp, cool wind shoved Harry's bangs forcefully against his forehead. He was angry and, feeling the argument needed closure, he whipped his head up and around until he found his quickly moving target.

"Hey! Hey!" He yelled as he ran to catch up with Sebastion.

"Harry, what are you- "

"What the hell was that back there?" His tears were cold against his face.

"Excuse me?"

"What the hell did you think you were doing? What? Did you think you could just walk into someone's life and single-handedly decide you're just… what? Just… _lovers_?"

"Lovers? What…? Harry, I was just asking you out on a stupid date, for Christ's sake!"

"A stupid date?"

"Yeah, _stupid." _There was a short pause as the two stared at each other, Harry's eyes glaring; Sebastion's searching.

"Well if it's so stupid, why'd you even bother to ask?"

"Oh, please. Let's not get into that immature of an argument, alright?"

"Oh, and suddenly you're fit to be the judge of what is and isn't immature?"

"Harry, what's wrong?"

"What the fuck do you mean _What's wrong?_ What the hell have we been yelling about?"

"No." Sebastion stepped forward and took a strong hold of Harry's shoulders even as the shorter brunette struggled to pull away. "What's _really_ wrong?"

"Oh, God. You're another fucking loony."

"Harry, I'm trying. I really am, but you've gotta help me out, here. I can't just magically read your mind. I don't know what's going on. All I've got is that I asked you out on a date and you fucking flipped the shit out. What the hell do you expect me to figure out from that? We don't have some tragic, complicated past or some code language that twisted my words into some bad, terrible meaning. As much as I try, I can't figure out how my asking you out on a date comes off as the offensive taboo you're making it out to be."

Some time throughout Sebastion's mini-speech, Harry had stopped struggling. His form almost sagged a little from the sudden relaxing of muscles and his tired gaze rested on Sebastion's eyes. "… you don't know."

"No, I don't. So tell me." And it was as if those words had melded together into the missing key that opened the barring gates of Harry's stress. He let himself fall into Sebastion's surprised arms and accompanied his long-since streaming tears with equally effusive sobs. "Harry-"

"I don't _know_. I don't _know._"

"What don't you know?"

"_Anything!_ I don't know _anything - _why I'm mad, what I want, what the fuck I'm doing with my life! I don't know _anything._" All he knew was that Draco had something to do with this whole mess. Hell, he had everything to do with it. Even as Harry hugged Sebastion for comfort, all he could think was that Sebastion's hold was a bit stronger than Draco's had been; that he didn't _smell_ like Draco did; that he didn't have to bend his neck as low to rest his chin atop Harry's crown. But all be damned if he was going to tell Sebastion that.

So when Sebastion asked him once again, "Harry, come on. What's wrong?" Harry's reply was a forced chuckle as he muttered, "I don't know. Teen melodrama, I guess."

DHDHDH

An hour later, and Harry sat side by side with Sebastion on a park bench. Sebastion let out an exhausted sigh before laying his head on Harry's shoulder - which Harry did nothing to stop.

"Oh, what a beautifully complicated night."

Sebastion laughed. "Hey, TGIF, right?"

"Yeah. TGIF."

Time passed silently as the two stared off in thought, comforted by each other's company.

The chill of the February night swept away the tangled webs in Harry's mind and brought a sense of peace. Feeling the light weight of Sebastion's head against his shoulder didn't seem so horrible, and sharing a night with someone whose name he actually knew for once wasn't exactly the worst fate he could think of, either. It didn't fulfill his raunchiest sexual dreams, but it did give him another sort of satisfaction that he quite liked.

"Sebastion?"

"Yeah?"

"Your offer - from before -, it doesn't still stand, does it?"

"I'm afraid to ask again," he laughed.

"Well, what if I ask, this time?"

Sebastion lifted his head and pulled away for a second to get a good look at Harry. He tilted his head in question, his left brow raised. Harry held back the urge to roll his eyes with a smirk.

"Well, go on, then. I'm waiting."

"Augh. You don't have to be such a prick about it."

"After all the crazy shit you just pulled, I think I reserve the right to be a downright asshole if I want." The two laughed.

"Fine, make it difficult. I don't care. Sebastion?"

"Yes?"

"Would _you_ like to go out on a proper date with_ me_, some time?"

"Mmm, I don't know. Short brunette's aren't really my type…" Harry gave him a playful punch on the left side of his chest before Sebastion pulled him into a kiss. As they pulled away, Harry had to shake off the unnerving feeling those kisses always gave him, but Sebastion didn't notice. "And speaking of today being Friday, it means tomorrow's Saturday - always the perfect day for a date, I'd say."

"And where, may I ask, will we be going on this fine date?"

"Hmm, good question. I'll have to figure something out. You just tell me where you live so I can pick you up."

"Ha! My mother's going to have a field day."

"What do you mean?" Harry hadn't told Sebastion anything about his…situation at home. In all honesty, Sebastion didn't even know if Harry had come out to his parents as gay. "Are your parents not ok with you being gay?"

"Erm… something like that."

"Should I meet you somewhere instead, then?"

"Mmm, no. They'll just have to learn to deal with it."

"Man, you better not be getting me into trouble."

Harry laughed. "Trouble? What trouble?"

DHDHDH

"I've got nothing," Draco said with a shrug and showed his empty hand of cards. "Paul?" When he received no reply, he called out again. "Paul? Hello, hey? Are you there?"

"Oh, sorry. Did you win?"

"Paul." They both knew the little gremlin thief that kept running off with his concentration. It was the day after Smitty's free-for-all show starring their very own Draco Malfoy. And yet, despite Draco being the puppet of humiliation, it was Paul - the unwilling audience - who couldn't ignore the incident; couldn't erase the image of his friend being fucked on all fours as he just watched.

At first, Smitty's cronies had forced him to watch, holding his twisting, convulsing face forward to watch the animalistic ritual. But as it got worse, he stopped turning of his own volition. Rather than make him more frantic to look away as Draco's pains grew worse, it acted as the fingers of a master holding its small, pet bird's head in place. Paul wouldn't look away. It wasn't the perverse instinct that forces young children to watch the strange, almost frightening vision of sex on television for the first time. It was Paul's only way to help Draco from his locked position.

If he looked away, it was as though he was abandoning Draco; leaving him to suffer alone. But if he watched, if he refused to leave him alone with that bastard - even if only in his mind - then he at least made sure that Draco was still alive; made sure that Smitty didn't get him completely alone. If he looked, he almost believed Smitty wouldn't go too far - even if 'too far' had long since been passed.

Worse, however, had been his inability to help Draco even after the cronies had set him free, following after the strolling Smitty. Oh, he'd tried. He'd practically thrown himself at Draco's side only to be stopped by a gentle, pained hand on his arm. _"I'm fine,"_ Draco had said, as he'd wincingly pulled up his pants and straightened to a stand. He'd flashed Paul a smile and chuckled, _"I think I need a cigarette."_

"Hey, come on, Paul. It's ok." Draco nudged Paul's knee with his own.

"No, it's not." His voice was soft like newly-healed skin.

"I'm a big boy." He smiled weakly, trying to comfort his friend. "I can handle it. I've been handling it - even putting up with it just like you told me to."

"Well, I was wrong. I didn't know fuck all what I was talking about."

"Sure you did. You were right. A few more months - weeks, really - and then I'm out. No reason to ruin it. I'm even feeling a little encouraged by the whole idea."

"I don't know how you do it."

Draco shrugged his shoulders. It was better not to dwell on the matter.

They played several more sets with few words exchanged until Paul finally asked, "Hey, have you heard back, yet? From… you know?" He spoke very carefully, making sure not to mention any specifics. It still wasn't safe to let anyone know Draco was writing to Harry, lest Smitty find out.

"No, not yet. It's only been a week, though. He's probably only just received it, actually."

"Are you excited? To hear back from him, I mean."

"What do you think?" His eyes squinted slightly from his smile.

"Yeah. Wish I had someone to write to like that. Oi, what's say I start writing to you and we pretend we're long-lost lovers, eh?"

"Sorry, mate. I'm already taken." Paul laughed. "Tell you what, though. If things don't work, I'll come straight back to London and break the first major law I can think of to get back in here and marry you."

"Can't wait."

DHDHDH

Harry let out a nervous breath, blowing some of the bangs out of his eyes. He was going out on a date with Sebastion. A date. What was that? He'd never been able to go out on a date with Draco - in public.

Sure, regardless of his lack of dating with Draco, he _had_ been on dates before. He'd gone to a dance with Ginny (however terribly bribed ad forced that event had been), and he'd been on a willing, even enjoyable date with Luna. But those dates had been different. Those had been straight.

A gay date out in the real world with Sebastion…. How was that going to work? What even happened on a gay date? Did they even exist? Were he and Sebastion committing some unprecedented event never having taken place before in the history of the human race?

Because now that he thought about it, he'd never _seen_ a gay date. Never seen two grown guys (or girls) holding hands as they walked along the road together. Never seen a same-sex couple kissing or holding each other affectionately in public. In all honesty, outside of the gay bar, he'd never even seen a gay couple, period.

What was Sebastion expecting? What were they going to do? Where were they going to go?

Suddenly, Harry was incredibly insecure and self-conscious about the entire ordeal because as much sex as he'd had and as comfortable as he seemed to be with his own sexuality and sharing it with other guys, he wasn't so sure he would be able to keep his comfort in public.

All the sex he'd had, all the flirting he'd done - it had all been done either in private or the safety of an accepting _community_ - if that's what you would call a gay bar. When he'd been with Draco, it had always been secret; hidden(except for the horrifically public fiasco in the courtroom). When he'd been with the men from the bar, they'd gone directly from the bar to their respective, private homes. It had never been public; never open to criticism.

He knew how badly people could react to homosexuality; he knew how bad it made him feel. The echo of '_cocksucker_' still rang through his head at times from that night - the night that sent everything tumbling downhill. Yes, he was better prepared for it now, but was better enough? What did better even mean? Was it the difference between A: running out, crying like the coward he'd been and B: simply walking away as he cried - just ever so slightly more dignified?

He now wondered how long Sebastion had been outwardly gay, and just how out he was. As much as Sebastion had shared with Harry about himself, his 'coming out' story had never been discussed. It wasn't that Sebastion was hiding it, Harry was sure. It had just never come up.

Was Sebastion 'out' everywhere, no matter what? Did his parents know? Did he expect to kiss and hold hands with Harry throughout their date(whatever it was planned to be)? Harry, for his part, didn't know that he was ready for that.

_Could it possibly get any more ironic than this?_ His first step had been sex. _Now_, he was finally exploring with the strangely more intimate parts to a relationship - touching; getting to know one another.

"Oh God," he muttered to himself, covering his face with a hand. He turned away from the bathroom mirror and opened the door. "Well, may as well go for it."

As he reached the top of the stairs, he saw his mother coming up. He took a few unsure steps down until they were on the same step. His normal reaction would have been to simply pass her by without a word, not even so much as allowing their shoulders to brush. But today, her eyes watching him; waiting, he gave her a curt nod and attempted a small smile (that ended up looking more like something smelled bad, but he was trying to be polite by not commenting) before continuing down the steps.

No words, but a small smile.

As the door closed behind her son, Lily leaned against the wall and giggled - just a little.

**A/N: Since so many people commented… I realize Sebastion is normally spelled 'Sebastian', but I wanted to spell it with an 'o', instead, to have it go with the whole motif of Sebastion being Harry's 'bastion' of hope (as lame as that sounds -.-').**

**xoxo Spideria xoxo**


	6. Chapter 6

**Rolling Seasons**

**Chapter 6**

**By: Spideria**

Sebastion had run a little late, which was just as well to Harry because as soon as he'd stepped out the door, he'd realized that he might not be dressed appropriately for the date. He hadn't quite thought about apparel and had simply donned the usual jeans and a t-shirt. Now, back in his room, stripped down to his briefs, he had no idea what he was going to wear.

_What the hell kind of date __**is**__ this?_ Harry thought to himself as the time quickly slithered along. He still had no idea what Sebastion had planned for the two and, therefore, had no idea what to wear. It was a date, for Christ's sake! Didn't people always dress up fancy on television when they went out on dates? A man in a nice suit, while the woman fashioned a long, expensive gown. Not that Harry was about to throw on a gown, but he needed to know! Was it just a "stroll" kind of date where he _could_ wear his jeans and the usual t-shirt? Or was it somewhere in between - the so-called "business-casual" where he was supposed to wear slacks and a nice button-down shirt?

Who even knew?

Goddamit, he whished he had Sebastion's phone number. He knew so much useless information about the guy, and yet he didn't even have his number. Sebastion at least knew where Harry _lived._ Yes, after much (well, not that much) debate, Harry had told Sebastion to pick him up at his house rather than give him another location to which he'd have to walk to. After all, James probably wouldn't even notice. He still spent his days a practical robot, doing the necessary tasks with no emotion and a minimal amount of speech.

He wasn't sad-looking per se. Rather, he was just sort of… hurried. He always seemed to have something else he needed to attend to. So if he saw anyone, it was just a quick jerk of his head - his way of salutation - and then he was off to whatever it was he had to do. But Harry didn't care much - at least the guy stayed out of his way.

As for Lily, he'd like to see her try stopping him. He would laugh in her face. He wouldn't let her ruin anything for him - not again. Maybe she'd caught him in a better mood, today, but that didn't mean he wouldn't lash out at her and forget it all at the first sign of attempted interference.

But he'd have time to see his parents' reactions later. Right now, he still had to find something to wear.

"Oh crap," he moaned to himself. Now he had only ten minutes left. Why, oh why did he always leave things to the last minute?

Desperate, he raided his closet for the third time in as many minutes, hoping for a miracle of inspiration.

It didn't come, of course.

With a sigh, he let himself collapse to the floor and rested his elbows on his knees, his balled hands holding his head up from his chin. He was doomed.

"God, why can't he just want a quick fuck just like every other guy?" After all, clothes were hardly ever an issue when the objective was to have them ripped off as quickly and efficiently as humanly possible.

With another groan, he leaned to the side and let himself slump to what he'd thought would be the bottom of his closet. However, hidden by his many hanging pant legs, a box interrupted his fall.

"Wha..?"

Curious, he pushed the pant legs aside to get a clearer view, but the room light didn't reach the dark corner of his closet, and he was forced to drag the heavy box out.

His stomach twisted slightly as he realized what it was. The box contained the memories he'd been too scared to take out when they'd first moved.

Schoolbooks, pictures of his friends - mostly Ron and Hermione (_the bloody bastards,_ he thought bitterly), little notes and souvenirs with inside jokes hidden within. He'd put the box in the closet those many months ago, telling himself he'd open it at some point or another.

"Well," he sighed. "Why not now?" It's not like it was _that_ big of a deal. He didn't even care about England anymore. It had abandoned him, so why the hell shouldn't he abandon England, as well?

He picked at one end of the tape with his nail. With a hard tug, he ripped it off, taking some of the old cardboard with it. The right box flap bounced open a bit, and Harry could see a sliver of what he knew to be Ron's freckled smile. He glared.

He wrenched the flap the rest of the way open, holding it back, and did the same with the other. The picture frame contained Ron and Harry on the first day Hermione had gotten a new camera for her fifteenth birthday. She'd taken the picture, he remembered, refusing to let anyone else hold it on that first day for fear that they would break it.

Harry scoffed before picking it up and tossing it out of the box to see what else he would find in the box.

More pictures and a pop-star bobble head Ron had gotten him at the last minute, not knowing what to buy Harry for his own birthday. It had been a miserable attempt at a gift, but it had made Harry laugh at the time, and (once again) Harry found himself chuckling. Ron had always been such a dolt.

He rested this on the ground with much more care than he had given the picture.

Then, he had to pause for a second as he came upon his English assignments from the last two months of his final school year in England. He had packed them to keep all the little comments Draco had written after grading them. Steeling himself, he reached in and lifted the small stack of papers. He flipped down to the bottom of the assignments where the red ink gave him feedback. Most were neutral and didn't show any sign of the feelings the blond had harbored for Harry. However, as he continued leafing through the pages, he came upon one of his earlier assignments, and a cloud of nostalgia closed itself around him, making his breath ragged.

_You have excellent ideas Harry, and you have a natural talent for writing. I can't wait until our little "get-together" after school. _

He remembered how nervous and excited that note had made him feel the first time he'd read it (and the subsequent twenty million times he'd _re_-read it, memorizing it down to the punctuation) - his first detention with Draco.

It was strange, looking back to a memory before anything had happened. He'd just been taken by the feelings Draco had invoked within him. He'd had no idea all that would stem from the seemingly small (well, maybe not so seemingly small) crush that he'd refused to even acknowledge at first. Knowing everything now, he almost wished he could go back to that Harry of the past and shake him till he threw away that dangerous note and stayed far, far away from Draco Malfoy so long as Harry was still not of legal age. So much could have been so easily avoided.

It had all been so stupid!

He'd been just a few, short months away from legality, and yet they'd both rushed in without _thinking_ - they hadn't _**thought!**_ Why hadn't they truly thought everything through? He knew they'd both acknowledged the possible consequences, but surely, they couldn't have _truly_ under_stood_ them for, if they had, surely they wouldn't have chosen to continue with what was bound to lead to -

The doorbell suddenly rang, and Harry's head snapped to his left.

"Shit."

Jumping up, he bound over to his window and looked out to see Sebastion dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and what he knew to be a faux-leather jacket.

What an unnecessary heap of stress he'd put himself through.

He raced to his closet and threw on the first articles of clothing his hands could reach. He then raced out of his room and down the stairs just as he heard Lily say, "Harry? What do you want with my son?"

Harry slid through the space between Lily and the open door to a confused and slightly embarrassed-looking Sebastion. He pulled the door closed before a gaping red-head and said to Sebastion, "Let's go."

"Harry-"

"Come on. Is this your car?"

Sebastion nodded as Harry walked over to a red Mercedes and let himself in. They took off as Lily finally regained her bearings and re-opened the door just in time to catch an apologetic look from Sebastion.

"What was that about?" the older of the two asked after a few minutes had passed.

"Oh, nothing. So, where are we going?"

Deciding not to push the subject, Sebastion simply held back a sigh and replied, "To the beach."

"The beach?"

"Yes, sir!"

"At 6 o'clock at night?"

"Well, we're not going _swimming_ in it. They have this awesome boardwalk with stores and shops all over the place and the best funnel cake you've ever had."

"I've never had funnel cake."

"You're kidding."

"I'm not."

"No. I think you misunderstood me. That wasn't a question. You're _kidding_."

Harry let out a laugh.

"Oh my god! I refuse to believe you've never had funnel cake before! You poor, _poor_ pitiful creature. How have you survived all these years?"

"By making up for it with lots of juicy, bleeding steak," Harry teased, yelping as Sebastion pinched his arm. "Ouch," Harry grumbled.

"Well, I'll just have to stuff you with it to make up for all the lost years. With any luck, you'll be puking out of your _eyes."_ He smirked at Harry's look of horror.

"Trust me. Once you taste it, you'll be begging for more. Vomit gushing from your eyes is a small price to pay for true bliss."

"We'll just have to see about that."

DHDHDH

"So 'ere's 'uh 'unnel 'ay?"

"What?" Sebastion laughed.

Blushing, Harry forced down his mouthful of pizza and asked again, "Where's this famed funnel cake you spoke so much about?"

Upon their arrival, Harry had been completely amazed by the bright, flashing lights of kiddie rides, games, and shops. He'd immediately forced Sebastion to play a racing game in which the player had to squirt water at a button through a plastic gun in order to make their plastic horses move forward. He had then made Sebastion play four more times until he won Harry a small, blue penguin in oversized sunglasses, reasoning, "If you're going to be all sappy and force me to go on a date with you, you might as well go the whole way and win me a stuffed animal - not that I actually _care_ about dolls." His refusal to loosen the small penguin from the (had it been alive) deadly, tight grip against his chest proved otherwise.

They'd just started heading in the direction of an arcade when Harry remembered he hadn't eaten anything before leaving, and his grumbling stomach (soon accompanied by a burning blush) forced him to let a laughing Sebastion drag him to the nearest pizza stand.

And now the two had returned to the boardwalk (the arcade forgotten), an oversized slice of pizza in each pair of hands.

"Mmm…" Sebastion chewed as he searched around, his eyes roving about the shops until his eyes lit up. "Aha! There it is!"

Harry looked at a small stand in the middle of the sidewalk some ten yards away. Displayed behind a window were chocolates and apples covered in candy, peanuts and caramel, and chocolate and marshmallows. Looking up, he saw a hanging sign advertising "candy apples, funnel cakes, and chocolate galore!"

"Let's go, then."

"I don't know, Harry. Do you think you can handle the beauty that is funnel cake?"

Rolling his eyes, he dragged Sebastion by the arm. "You promised me eye vomit, and I intend to hold you to it."

When they finally reached the stand, Harry directed his attention to the girl behind the counter. "Hi, can we have two pieces of funnel cake?" The young girl raised a brow that clearly showed how strange she thought the boy to be, while Sebastion fought to hold in his laugh.

"He means an order of funnel cake," Sebastion managed through grenades of snorts.

"Ok." As the girl turned away, her face remained slightly scrunched, screaming _weirdo_!

"A whole cake?"

Sebastion's small bombs finally gathered together in a large explosion of laughter. The lady soon came back and Harry had to pull the wallet out of the still-laughing cartoonist in order to pay for the funnel cake. As he took a hold of the paper plate, it was his turn to carry the scrunched face.

"This is _not_ a cake."

"Of course not. It's not an actual _cake._" Sebastion snatched off a piece of the fried dough as they walked along the boardwalk once again.

"Then _why_ is it called funnel _cake_?"

"I don't know. Why do they call them butterflies? Is that what you see in the summer? Flying pieces of butter? _No_. So just shut up and try it, you punk. You'll like it, I swear."

Scrunching his nose apprehensively, Harry pulled off a piece and placed it lightly between his lips.

"Well?" Harry rolled the cake imposter around in his mouth for a moment, savoring the sweet sugar until it was entirely licked away, before chewing the rest into a mush and swallowing.

"Hmm… it's _ok._"

Sebastion's eyes nearly popped out and attacked Harry, themselves. "Ok? _Ok??_ This is God's personalized gift to us lesser mortals and you're telling me it's _just __**ok**_? Give me that!" He snatched the plate away and took another piece into his mouth."

"Hey!"

"No! If you're not going to appreciate it, then _I_ will."

"Alright, alright. So it's a little better than ok." Harry quickly looped his arm around Sebastion's and managed to steal a curl of the cake.

Smiling, Sebastion leaned down and kissed Harry. Harry took this opportunity to slyly steal back the plate and gave Sebastion an affection shove with his shoulder.

"Bunch o' fags," a middle-aged man muttered to his friends. Harry's mood was completely destroyed. The sad thing was, the man looked just like another one of the guys from the Tom's bar.

"Oh, yeah? Well, fuck you," Sebastion said with a smile, and if Harry hadn't been paying attention, he might have confused 'fuck you' with 'thank you' with how happy Sebastion sounded. The man scoffed, but continued walking without another word.

"Come on! Let's walk over to the beach." Sebastion had moved on and forgotten all about the entire incident, but it wasn't quite so easy for Harry. This was exactly what he'd feared would happen. When they'd first arrived at the boardwalk, the two had simply walked side by side. They could have passed for friends. Harry hadn't even thought about the fact that they were two homosexuals on a date in a predominantly heterosexual world.

But now, he was completely aware of the fact and more self-conscious than he'd felt in a very long time. As Sebastion went to grab his hand to pull him towards the beach, Harry feigned an itch in his opposite arm, and moved the hand away. He made sure to keep a carefully spaced distance between himself and the other boy. He didn't feel like the "hot stuff" he'd made himself out to be at the bar.

Sebastion gave him a questioning look and Harry felt a painful throb in the back of his throat as his body burned with what he vaguely suspected to be shame. He looked away. He suddenly wished he'd never agreed to go on this date.

"Harry."

"Hmm?" Harry asked, suddenly finding it of extreme importance to straighten out his penguin's sunglasses.

"You're gonna love it on the beach."

"Sure, yeah," but his voice was miserable.

Without second-guessing himself, Sebastion did the first thing that came to mind. "Hey, hey!" He had grabbed Harry around his med-section from behind and lifted him into the air, his feet kicking wildly towards the sky. "Put me down! Sebastion, I'm not playing! Put me down! Let go of me!"

"Sorry. No can do."

"You're going to make me drop the funnel cake!"

"Too bad. I'm taking you to the beach," and true to his word, he carried the still flailing, yelling teen towards the shore.

"Sebastion, please! Just put me down!" He swiveled his head around, anxious about the infinite number of people that could be watching the physical display.

"I could, but isn't it so much more fun being strapped so close to me?"

Harry had no reply.

"There." When Harry's feet next touched the ground, it felt slightly softer, and he looked down at the surrounding sand. Glaring, he tried to distance himself once again, but Sebastion swiftly caught his hand and walked him closer to the gently sloshing water. "Romantic, isn't it?" His brows waggled jokingly.

"Yes, so romantic." Harry's voice was sarcastic and still slightly angry, but really, it _was_ romantic, however cliché. After all, if everyone had done this a million times before, it had to be for a reason. More relaxed now that they were sufficiently far from prying eyes, Harry let himself draw closer to Sebastion. "It's going to suck getting the sand out of my shoes."

Sebastion chuckled.

Suddenly very guilty, he leaned up and placed a gentle kiss upon Sebastion's lips. He felt terrible for being too cowardly to show his affection in public. The two stayed like that for a moment, holding the kiss as one holds a hug, until slowly, Harry pulled away. He had to stop himself from gasping.

"What is it?"

"N-nothing." For a second - with the moonlight shining directly over Sebastion's head, his hair had seemed to gleam a distinctly unique blonde that Harry had only ever before seen on one person.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I just…. You're… you're really beautiful." Harry blushed. It wasn't a complete lie. But Sebastion more than accepted the compliment and pulled Harry into another kiss.

Harry made sure to look down the next time he pulled away.

xoxo Spideria xoxo


	7. Chapter 7

**Rolling Seasons**

**Chapter 7**

**By: Spideria**

It was now mid-March. Thanks to his good behavior (in some part due to Smitty's keeping all others away), Draco's sentence had been reduced to eight months. He would be out in six weeks. Yet, incomprehensibly (or so it seemed to Paul), the blond appeared a tad… forlorn. It had been just over a month since Draco had written a long overdue letter to Harry, and in that time, he had written a second, hoping that perhaps the lack of response was due to a postal mistake. He imagined a tattered, rain-splotched letter caught in between an old wooden draw, or dropped and missed, covered in a gritty footprint, the smudged ink reading the now illegible name, _Harry Potter. _Or perhaps it lay still in the postal bag, folded and forgotten at the very bottom. Possibly, he thought, it had slipped out past the top of the bag, blown away on a particularly windy day, and lay now in rat-infested sewer, chewed away at to the point of irrecognition. But there had been no response to his second letter, either, and he somehow doubted that there now existed a sewer with two crumbled letters, both addressed to one Harry (James) Potter, lying side by side.

Along the same lines of his postal mishap imaginings, he thought perhaps that Harry had died. Walking around a park one day as he took his dog, Marla, for a stroll (for in this hypothetical world, Harry and his parents had, of course, bought one such pet) when a sudden and unforeseeable storm whooshed into the surrounding area, a stray bolt of lightning striking the boy instantaneously dead. Poor Marla must have no doubt run home to notify his parents, whimpering the whole way there. What a loyal pup.

Yet this premise seemed a bit too tragic for the young man's taste, and he thought, instead, that maybe Harry had just moved. This theory, however, brought up a troubling question. For why wouldn't Harry have written him in advance to inform Draco of such a change?

It seemed, in the end, that Draco had to wonder at the possibility of the most plausible explanation of all: Harry had not written back because Harry had not wanted to write back.

After all, it wasn't a far cry from justifiable. Draco hadn't written Harry for months. Had let Harry send multiple letters without reply only to continue mum for weeks after. Draco had all but abandoned the teen, if not in spirit, then in physical proof. Why wouldn't Harry have moved on and chosen to forget the blond in the time since then? He hoped, however, that this was not the case.

Taking a final, nervous puff, he tossed the cigarette down and put it out with a form twist of his foot. Yet he stood there for another long moment, still and unblinking, unaware of his watching friend.

"Ok, seriously, mate. What the hell's the matter with you? You're heading towards freedom in less than two months, and yet you're walking around like it's the death sentence, instead. Need I remind you that punishment by death has been illegal in the UK for quite some time now?"

"Wha-? Oh, I'm sorry Paul. I'm fine. I've just got a lot on my mind now. I mean, going back into the real world is going to be wild, you know? I mean, where do I go from here? No school in their right mind would hire a convicted… well, a convicted felon." Although the two men were close friends, the two had never discussed their reasons for imprisonment. His explanation was not a complete lie, either. He had studied literature all his life, and he had no idea where he would go from there. Even if Harry had written back, eager to see him once the blond got out, there was the question of money to answer. Where was Draco going to get the money to fly over to the US? To live there? To bring Harry back with him? He didn't even know that much yet. Plans had never been set out. There had only ever been a powerful urge of love and desperation, and the irrational need to be together. He suddenly felt like an immature, pubescent teenager. He was supposed to be the adult of the two, and yet he, himself, had never made logical plans. He had never looked far enough into the future. He hardly new if he would be able to provide for himself, much less Harry. And what if such an unstable life was not one Harry would agree to? He rubbed his hand wearily down his face.

"Listen, things'll be fine. I've got plen'y o' family tha's been in prison before, and they always find something. Criminals give their employers something they can't get from anyone else. Assurance. Loyalty. They're not afraid to do things off the books since they know we'd be the last ones to rat them out for it. There's a very fine line between employer and criminal, yeh know."

"Heh. I suppose."

"And speaking o' criminals, I got a letter from my mum recently. 'Says I've got some cousins comin' in to join us fairly soon."

"You're kidding. That's awful! I'm really sorry, Paul."

"What are you talking about? Tha's great! We'll finally have some more company than each other, not that I could ever bore you, of course, but you sure bore the hell out o' me!" He shoved the blond playfully. "And anyway, they're all pretty big blokes, not scrappy like me. They'll be able to keep Smitty off your back. And you'd better believe they will when I tell 'em what a right down prick that guy is."

"Oh, God, Paul, don't tell them about it. I don't want them to go straight into rivalries on my account. They'll be new, here, and it's definitely not a good way to start."

"New? Clearly, you don't know my cousins. They've been here loads of times! Heck, this'll be like coming home for a family reunion – they've got dozens of loyal friends here!"

Draco's eyes widened a bit in surprise, but he bit his tongue to keep silent. It wasn't his place to ask prying questions about Paul's family history.

"And anyway, even if I didn't say anything, they'd figure it out soon enough. That bastard never leaves you alone, and it's not like my cousins to let that kind of ass hole behavior go unchallenged. A friend o' mine is a friend of all of theirs." Draco allowed himself a small, but hopeful grin. "Hey, I didn't want you to look like death, but that doesn't mean you should start smilin' like a bloody ponce. People like that get killed for smiling just before gettin' free! Makes the others jealous."

Then Draco laughed and clapped the brunette on the back. "You're a good friend, Paul. Really. Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah. No need ter get all sappy on me."

DHDHDH

Since his date with Sebastion nearly three weeks ago, Harry had begun to open up with Sebastion. He told him about his life in England and how he'd only just come out (under some strained incidents that he kept vague, and which Sebastion didn't pry into – a mercy Harry greatly appreciated) before his family moved to America. He talked about his (essentially nonexistent) life in school and the friends he didn't have, though he spoke of it not sorrowfully, but factually. He explained that he was still only just barely out with his parents and not at all at school, except for his school counselor, about whom he only skimmed over in conversation. Again, Sebastion tactfully chose not to pry. He listened, instead, avidly; he was eager to learn all that Harry had refused to share before. The teen reached a level of comfort with Sebastion that he hadn't thought he'd ever attain, and Sebastion responded with an equal increase in physical affection. So when Sebastion finally invited Harry back to his apartment for the inevitable romp between the sheets, it shouldn't have come as a surprise.

But it did.

Responding instinctually, Harry gave a suggestive wink and smirk, but as they drove towards Sebastion's apartment, he grew increasingly nervous. He'd had sex with the man before, but something didn't feel right about it this time. Perhaps it was the large lapse in time since their previous sexual encounter, but more likely it was the fact that the two had grown much more emotionally entangled than before. This would be the first time Harry had sex with anyone for whom he held even a modicum of affection for since….

He could barely think the name. It had been so long since he'd last heard from the blond, and in the last few weeks, he'd finally begun to put some distance between his memories and his present. He didn't want to falter now.

Sebastion reached the parking behind his apartment building, and the two walked out and took the elevator to the seventh floor. The trip to Sebastion's floor seemed to last an eternity, and Harry could not understand for the life of him why Sebastion was smiling and nuzzling at his neck because the silence in the elevator seemed a dangerous suffocation, slowly squeezing the very life out of him until finally, finally the metal doors slid open, and they stepped out.

When they finally entered the apartment, Harry wiped away a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead and raced to where he thought the kitchen was only to walk into what looked like an office room.

"Woah, hey. Where're you racing off to?" Sebastion laughed. Harry suddenly hated himself for never paying close enough attention to the homes of the strangers he went home with. Here he was, in a home in which he'd already had sex, and yet he couldn't even remember where the damned kitchen was!

"Water. Thirsty." He barely rasped out. His mouth was dry.

"Oh, sure. I'll be just a second."

As Sebastion fetched the drink, Harry sat himself down on the couch and thought of the least suggestive manner in which to compose himself. First he sat on the very edge of the couch to discourage any thoughts of pushing him down and ravishing him on the spot. But then he realized Sebastion might take this as a sign that he was too eager to leave said couch for the more sexual furniture – the bed. Then he quickly pushed himself as far back as he could without breaking through the back of the couch, until he realized this would make it hard for him to attempt a quick escape. He thought of sitting with his legs loose and spread, feet firmly on the ground, then tightly crossed together. The former, however, provided easy access to his bits, and the latter made it difficult to flee. Everything was a compromise!

In the end, Sebastion returned to the living room to find one wan Harry Potter, sitting slightly back in the very center of the couch with knees firmly squeezed together, but feet spread wide apart. His hands were awkwardly clutching his shoulders, the knuckles white with strain.

"Hey, why so tense, you? Oh, no! Don't tell me – you're a virgin!" When Harry didn't laugh at the joke, Sebastion stopped smiling and sat down, passing Harry his water. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Harry licked his lips to respond, but nothing came out. When he thought about it, he didn't really know what exactly he found wrong with the situation. Yes, he was more emotionally attached to Sebastion now, but wasn't that a good thing? Didn't he want to loosen his grip on… him? Didn't he want to move on? Well, no. Truth be told, he didn't. But he did want to feel happier. And if being happier meant letting go, then he wanted to at least try moving in that direction. It wasn't a betrayal if… if He had already moved on and left Harry behind long ago. Harry wanted this, if not because he innately wanted to move on, then because he wanted the positive benefits that moving on would no doubt bring him.

So then what was wrong?

He thought about Sebastion and how close the two had grown and how comfortable and open he had felt with him for the past few weeks. And then it hit him. The two _hadn't_ truly been open with each other. Or at least, Harry hadn't. Sebastion had listened without question or complaint, but Harry left far too much unsaid, and they both knew it. The problem was that Harry couldn't see moving further with Sebastion without completely opening up. Because, in some sense, he wanted reassurance that everything was ok and that Sebastion accepted Harry's past. He wanted to know that Sebastion didn't care about the trouble Harry had gotten into; that he wouldn't run away at the events that Harry had been so scared to reveal for so long.

Because that was the truth. He was scared. He didn't want to be rejected and humiliated again. He put on a brave act at the bar, but as soon as he left the world of homosexuals, he went right back to the coward that he was. In school, out in the real world, he could never reveal the truth about himself. He was frightened and ashamed.

He hadn't spoken about it to anyone since the trial. Not to Ron or Hermione, definitely not to his parents, and even more laughably, he had definitely not spoken to anyone at school about it – and that included his school counselor, despite her many efforts.

Now, alone and sweaty with anxiety in a room with Sebastion, he wanted to open up. He wanted to tell someone.

So he did.

"Sebastion," he began. "I… I want to tell you something."

"Ok. I'm listening."

He told him everything. From the first teacher taking a leave of absence, to his initially small crush on Draco. He spoke of discovering his sexuality, and then, he took the biggest step, and told him about Draco. Their first kiss, the hiding, the secrets, the lies. He never said Draco's name, but that was not essential. He told him the facts and the biased. He told him of his emotional turmoil, and shared the outcome of the trial. He told him, even, of the post-trial drama, how he hated his parents (though mostly his mom), and he actively tried to disrespect them by being rude and launching himself at every middle-aged man that passed his way. More difficult, he spoke of his longing to return to Draco; of how much it had hurt when he realized Draco wasn't coming back. How much it still hurt.

He wished, later, that he could say he had told the story with a stone face: no emotion in his words, just a calm, brave look narrated by powerful words. But that would have been a lie. The calm front lasted for all of five minutes before he reached a detailed description of Draco. Unnecessary? Yes. But the words flowed from his mouth the way fish swim in the sea – spurned on by the unconscious urge to create beauty. Then the tears blurred his vision until the sobs strangled his words so that Sebastion had to pull the unmoving boy into his arms, and soothe him with calming words. Still, he continued. He sobbed his way through the entire story, speckled with moments of composure, but splotched mostly with cathartic weeping.

Finally, when Harry went silent for a long, uninterrupted moment, Sebastion spoke. "Harry, I…" He shifted nervously, Harry still on his chest. "Listen, if you're still waiting for this guy…."

Harry quickly pulled away. "But that's just it. He's not coming back, and I'm… not. I'm not waiting for him, anymore. That's why I told you. I'm ready to… to move on. And I want to do it with you."

A strange look passed over Sebastion's features. For a moment, Harry thought he saw Sebastion preparing to pull away, but then the man smiled, weakly, turning just the left side of his lips a little upward. "I… let's not do anything tonight. Let's just…. Let's just relax together, alright?"

"A-alright." He wasn't sure what kind of response this was. Was this good? Was this a good response, showing more affection than a simple shag in bed would have demonstrated? Was Sebastion in shock? He hadn't pulled away.

Harry settled his head back against Sebastion's chest, trying to relax his muscles, but he was unable to close his eyes.

"And, hey," Sebastion added. Harry perked up, ready for some sign of reassurance. "You shouldn't be so hard on you're parents. They were just looking out for your best interest. You know?"

To Harry, it seemed as if his body were some sort of pool float, and a hole had caused him to deflate and sink beneath the water. _But he isn't turning you away,_ he thought._ He's hugging you to him. That has to mean something, right? Something good._ But as the night dwindled past and Sebastion's breathing slowed down, Harry's eyes remained wide open, staring into blurry brown nothingness.

DHDHDH

Lily sat silently in bed, the lights still on, and staring at nothing in particular. She used to hold a book or magazine, perhaps even turn on the bedroom television to at least pretend she wasn't waiting like a useless doll. But months had passed and the charade held no more pretense; it was useless to pretend she was doing anything other than waiting (almost hopelessly) for James to come to bed. Sometimes she thought he would walk into the bathroom and never come out, having disappeared; gone like the morning dew before the afternoon's heat.

The toilet in the adjoining bathroom flushed, a light switched off, and James stepped out, slightly wet from his nightly face wash. He didn't even bother to nod at her in recognition. A few steps and he'd walked to his side of the bed, slipping in wordlessly. As he turned on his left side, his back to her, she breathed out and switched off the lamp.

Her eyes remained wide open. She would not sleep. For Harry had not come home, yet, and she didn't know when he would. And as James's breathing deepened, she silently seethed to herself that her brute of a husband could sleep while her baby was out there doing only god knew what, needing them; needing her. Despite her son's fierce front, she could see his pain, knew he was suffering. And oh, how she longed to comfort him. She felt him, now, suffering and alone – if not physically, then emotionally. If only he would let her wrap her arms around him, hug him tight enough to squeeze out the pain, warm enough to melt away the sorrow. She hardly realized she was crying.

Everything had gone so wrong. All she wanted was the best for her son and now he hated her and perhaps himself. There was nothing she could do, and it was all because of that bastard man! She had trusted him! She had met him at Harry's game and presented her son to him to so proudly. And this was what she got for it – a ruined family!

And now the perverted ass hole wanted to bother her family from thousands of miles away! She unconsciously patted her side of the mattress, underneath which she had quickly hidden the man's latest letter in her frenzied rush to hide it from James this morning. Oh, how she loathed that man! She had taken to checking the mail first thing every morning, and for a moment she almost wondered if Harry had held the same intentions in the beginning, when he'd always checked the mail. But she quickly swept the idea away, for how could Harry have ever given the man their address? Though he'd known the prison in which the man was being held, he hadn't known the specific address for him. That man would have had to send the first letter, and there was no way Harry could have known he would write.

And now he would never know. She would not take legal action, for she had decided that such a reaction would instigate the man. He would get out of jail soon enough, and then he would come for her son. No, she would not let that happen. She almost wished she could write back with a vehement impersonation of Harry telling the man to leave him alone. But of course he had been Harry's English teacher, and she could not forge Harry's writing well enough to fool a teacher who had seen Harry's writing countless times. No doubt the pervert had spent hours gazing over it, obsessing and thinking horrible thoughts about her son as he read his writing. She shivered in disgust.

Well, she would do the next best thing. She would collect each and every one of his damned letters and hide them, keeping them for future proof should the necessity ever arise. She would wait until a lack of response convinced the horrid man that her son was not interested, and then, perhaps, he would finally leave them all alone. Leave Harry alone to lead a normal life.

For he could lead a normal life. She believed it. She had long since come to terms with Harry's sexuality. She had more than come to terms with it, and would even embrace it if only he would let her. How she longed for him to meet a nice boy his own age and present him to her, nervous as every child is when presenting that special someone. She would show Harry how proud she was and how much she loved him.

But he would never do such a thing. She had made so many mistakes, and she shuddered to think that there was no way to fix any if it. One loud sob escaped unexpectedly. James shifted before falling once again into rhythmic breathing.

She thought about Harry again, wondering where he was. Eventually, as always, she pulled out from under the bedspread and slipped quietly down the stairs to sit and wait. Sit and wait. Sometimes she fell asleep; sometimes she didn't. If someone had asked her the next morning which one she'd done this night, she wouldn't have been able to say with any degree of certainty; for her mind seemed to shut down, but her eyes remained wide open, staring out into the shadowed darkness.

**AN: You can thank (or blame) long winter breaks and a lack of local diversion for this long overdue update. Also, in case anyone's still reading this story, I've finally done a bit of plotting out so that there should be another few chapters coming out in the next few weeks. Oh, and the next chapter gets the story moving in a new direction, the second of three I have planned for the story (which I'm pretty excited for. A nice change of pace – this bit wasn't quite doing it for me). **

**xoxo Spideria xoxo**


	8. Chapter 8

**Rolling Seasons**

**Chapter 8**

**Spideria**

The next morning, confused and just a little bit sore from the awkward sleeping position, Harry and Sebastion slugged tiredly off the couch. The night before had proven slightly awkward. Too unsure of themselves to speak, neither Harry nor Sebastion had moved all night, whether to take Harry home or to migrate to the bed. Instead, the two had fallen asleep in each other's arms, uncomfortable in their positions, but too uncertain to say anything.

It was now, however, that they found themselves in even more awkward positions. Sebastion's gaze continually avoided Harry's as he mumbled where a spare toothbrush and toast could be found. Harry, in turn, felt completely out of place and relished at the chance to escape the other man's averted eyes. In the bathroom, he reached for a new toothbrush in the cupboard beneath the sink and shook slightly as he squeezed out a line of toothpaste. What the hell did Sebastion mean by his body language? Why was he two steps away from ignoring him?

After five more minutes in which Harry stalled motionless in his futile attempt to brace himself for Sebastion's off-putting behavior, the boy stepped out of the bathroom and walked hesitantly back into the kitchen. A slice of toast sat upon a plate across from where Sebastion was sitting. At Harry's entrance, the other man finally looked up and gave a tentative smile. "'didn't know whether you'd like butter or jam. Or both. So…."

"Plain is fine, thanks." In fact, plain was already more than Harry thought he could handle at the moment, queasy as he felt. At least Sebastion had finally met his gaze. And smiled. Surely, a good sign…?

"Er… Sebastion." Harry bit his lip, nervous. "Are you… er…." Still standing, he could neither bring himself to sit nor bring himself to finish the question, for he feared the answer. '_Are you alright?' _ What an impossible question – for what if he wasn't? What if that was the only nudge Sebastion needed before he let it all out and told Harry that in fact, he was not alright and that he wanted done with Harry right then and there? He didn't think he could handle it. So instead, he shook his head, smiled back, and sat down to nibble at his toast.

It wasn't long before Sebastion stood to signal the door. "We'd better get going. Your parents must already be freaking out since you never came home."

Harry thought for a moment about his poor – no! Never poor. She chose this. – mother waiting for him in that big couch that made her look so deceptively feeble. He nodded. "You'd better just drop me off at school, though. I'm already going to be late."

"I think I'd better not. I'm sure your parents are really worried, and –"

"Sebastion, it's fine." He just barely managed not to shout the last word, instead gritting it through his teeth.

"No, it's not fine. I'm driving the car, and I say I'm driving you home."

The two stared each other down for several moments before Harry finally looked away, acquiescing. They were already treading on dangerous territory, he knew, and he didn't want to risk worsening the situation.

In the car, no one spoke. The tension expanded so quickly, it seemed ready to shatter the windows.

It wasn't until Sebastion parked the car a short distance from Harry's house that the first word was uttered. As Harry reached out to open the door, Sebastion held him back with a swiftly placed arm.

"Wait." He did. But he gave no other indication that he had heard the older man. His eyes remained resolutely downcast, his hand never leaving the door handle. "I… about last night." Harry stiffened slightly. "Listen, it sounds like you've been through a hell of a lot, and to be quite frank…. Well, I'm just not sure that another relationship with an older guy is the best thing for you right now."

He couldn't hear him. A blaring sound was clanging off in his head and he couldn't hear Sebastion's words because if he didn't hear, then they weren't true. This wasn't happening to him right now. He had finally opened up to someone, and it was blowing up in his – no. Because this was not happening right now. He refused to accept this.

"Harry?"

This absolutely was not possible. He was dreaming – no, he was having a nightmare and possibly wailing his head off and would someone please just come in and wake him up already! Oh, god. His breath was quickening and were those tears in his eyes? No. Why were his lips twitching so oddly?

"Harry, please, you have to understand. I know this sounds as cliché as anything, and I hate myself for sounding like the ass hole parent, but I really think this is in your best interest. You're a great kid – I mean, guy, and I've had a great time with you, but I really think you need to sort through your life before you get into another relationship. And not just with an older guy. Any relationship. I don't think you're ready to –"

He couldn't take it anymore. He shoved the door open and stumbled blindly out of the car. He ignored the calls entreating him to stop and come back; to listen. For he could do neither. He needed to get away right then and there and lock himself in his room to mourn another three months – mourn that he was alone again, mourn that every relationship was bullocksed for him, mourn that Draco would not come back.

He shoved his keys helplessly at the door to no avail, only to have his mother thrust the door open with a horribly relieved gasp. "Harry!" she called, twitching in her desperation to hug him, but he would not let her; could not let her. He hurried past her and rushed up the stairs, ready to bolt into his room when his father stepped out from his bedroom. His eyes were dead as ever, as if he'd long since gone numb, and suddenly, Harry felt a ferocious hatred for the man.

"How can you stand there so dead every day?! How can you walk around like nothing's ever wrong? Don't you care that I was gone all night? Don't you care at all?! You never look at me! You never look at anyone! I could have been fucking half of New Jersey, and you wouldn't have a single fucking clue, would you? What kind of father does that? What kind of father doesn't even talk to their bloody own son?! You're horrible." He had barely whispered the last word before he was racing down the stairs again and shooting out the door. He didn't want to think about the only emotion that had finally shone through his father's eyes in the months since they'd left England.

DHDHDH

He rushed into school, already an hour late. "Shit," he muttered, as he realized he was scheduled to meet with his counselor today. The walk to school had calmed him down somewhat, but since it was already fifteen minutes into second period by the time he reached his locker and realized he'd left all his books at home, he wandered over to his counselor's office. He wasn't due for another forty minutes, but he figured if ever there was a time he needed someone to talk to, it was now. And after all, hadn't she promised to make herself always available?

At the door, he knocked first too softly and then too loudly in his determination to build… well, determination. Through the window, he saw her head sharply look up, and she quickly muttered something into the phone before hanging up and calling Harry in.

He sat down without introduction and watched her in silence. She looked back, the skin around her lips twitching just ever so slightly so that he knew she was trying not to purse them. So she was angry, he thought, but trying not to show it.

"You missed your first period class."

"Oh, don't give me any of that –" he cut off abruptly and kicked roughly at the carpeting, just barely withholding a curse.

"Excuse me?" Eyes wide in anger.

"Look, I just – I want to talk."

There was a long pause in which he could tell she was thinking. Berate him now and lose his momentary trust or let the minor mishap fall and let him finally open up. She could see he was distressed, and in the seven months since she had met him, he had only rarely ever revealed himself so emotionally, and never before she had prodded him with personal questions. "Okay."

"But not – I don't want to talk about specifics. I just – I just need to talk out the… well, the general, I guess. I mean, I'm feeling all these… all these… I don't know, emotions, I guess, and none of them are good. I just, I don't understand how it got this way. How everything got so fucked up. 'sorry. But, honest, I never…. I mean, one minute it was just a crush, and the next…. I thought the worst that could happen was… well, actually, I don't think I ever even let myself think that far ahead, and then…. And after, you know, it sucked, of course, and I did all this stuff to try and get over it because…. Well, let's face it, he's not ever coming back for me, is he?" He stopped for a second, almost waiting for Ms. Miranda to assure him that yes, yes he would come back, but he couldn't bare the risk that she would only agree.

"But it all just made me feel so ashamed, you know? And then I finally met…. I mean, I finally thought, now here's a guy who…. But I was wrong. Wrong again. And the worst part of it is that I don't place any blame on…. I could never…. And all I do is get angrier and angrier at my parents and it's not even their fault! Well, my mother's a complete nut job! I feel like I never knew her at all. But my dad…. After everything happened, just before we left, he was the one who…. He let me see him again. One more time. And how do I thank him? I completely explode! I told him such horrid things this morning, and I can't even believe it. It's like someone else said it all because even though I remember it, and I really remember it – every word, the screech in my throat, that dreadful look in his eyes like I'd just stabbed him in the heart – even still, I can't believe it was me because how could I say such a thing? How could I do that? That's not me. I don't want it to be."

The counselor barely made out his final words. His hands covered his face to hide the tears, and his shoulders shook with the weight of his sorrow. She knew the first part of his jumbled speech referred to Draco Malfoy, his previous high school English teacher with whom he'd had a sexual affair. She was glad the boy had finally opened up about his pressing past, but he had veered off into a rambling outburst that left her entirely lost. She had gathered that he must have at one point picked up a new (rebound) boyfriend who had now broken up with him, hence said spontaneous outburst; she also understood that his relationship with his parents had somewhat (greatly) disintegrated – a prospect which he was no longer alright with. What she didn't understand were all the details in between and how far she was allowed to go in her probing and advice before he closed up again.

She waited for his sobs to subside before speaking.

"Harry." He heard his name but couldn't answer. After all he'd said (more like shrieked), he felt empty and tired and worst of all, he felt regret. He wished he could take it all back because he suddenly realized how vulnerable he had become. Yes, it had felt therapeutic (as therapeutic as spewing out one's guts could feel, anyway) to finally talk to someone about all his frantic thoughts and emotions, but now he had a gaping (well, perhaps not on the outside, but he could see the gaping confusion in her mind) counselor to face. He had spoken his feelings and released some anxiety, but now he just wished he could get up and walk out.

"Harry," she called again. Clearly, this was not possible, made all the more clear as she continued on, deeming a response on his part unnecessary. "Harry, the first thing I want you to know is that telling me all that you did was very noble of you. I know it can be a very frightening thing to do." He still couldn't pull his hands away from his face. "But I also need you to know that this isn't the end. It doesn't just get fixed from here, as you can probably imagine. As hard as this was, you're going to have to keep talking to me if you are to improve your situation. And I know that it's going to take time, so I'm not going to rush you. In fact, you don't have to tell me anymore if you don't want to for today."

His gaze shot up for a moment, checking to see if he had heard right. Was he really free to go? Just like that? "But I would like you to stay with me for at least the rest of this period." Well, he couldn't have everything in life. "Please don't look so miserable at the idea. I promised you didn't have to tell me anymore, and I meant it. I think we should just talk. About anything. It could be as unrelated to your life as movies coming out this week or that terrible new song everyone keeps singing in the halls. I am not that old, as I'm sure you can tell, but I swear the music gets worse with every generation…."

Harry was relieved to spend the next half hour listening to Ms. Miranda's music preferences, food allergies, and least favorite movies. It was, to be sure, the most bizarre conversation he'd ever had with a teacher (well, counselor), but he was glad to just sit there and let her words wash over him, only ever responding with the occasional nod or small smile. As an atonal beep sounded the end of second period, she looked genuinely surprised.

"Oh, wow. Look at the time! You know Harry, you are just such a great listener." She gave him a playful wink, for she knew as well as he did that most of what she had said had gone unprocessed. "And as such, I can only hope to thank you by excusing your tardiness. I can't erase it from the attendance records, but I can make sure you don't get detention."

"Oh, er… thanks." He hadn't even thought about that. "Well, I guess I'll see you on Thursday."

"Yes. Oh, and Harry." He turned a questioning look at her. "I know I said I wouldn't make you say anything more, but I'd like to offer a suggestion if you'll take it."

Slowly, he nodded. "I think you should really talk to your parents. You don't have to talk about what happened. You just have to… talk. I think it could really be good for you. All of you."

He nodded again before walking into the hall.

DHDHDH

He had barely remembered to worry about how he was going to make due for the rest of the day without his books when a loud voice called out, "What a fucking fag!"

He froze.

It didn't make sense. How could this be happening? Had someone been listening at the door? Was it just some jerk trying to give the foreign kid a rough time? He had encountered some jealous boyfriends early on in the year, but the girls' interest in him had long since faded. They had quickly realized that he was withdrawn and moody and clearly destined to be that kid that everyone knows by reference, but never by name. Were he to ever be brought up in a conversation, he imagined it would go something like this:

"_Look Jenny, I really think you should give Zack a try."_

"_I don't know. I mean, he's kind of really weird."_

"_Oh come _on_, Jenny. Zack is _not_ weird. Weird is that creepy kid from history class."_

"_What kid?"_

"_You know, the one that's always sitting in the back. Kinda anorexic looking with these total dweeb glasses. I think he had an accent at the beginning of the year."_

"_Oh. _Oh_! Oh yeah, I know_. That_ kid. Yeah, that _is_ pretty weird."_

"_So, Zack, yes? Come on, he's my cousin!"_

"_Uh… I don't know…."_

He paid attention to no one, and they in turn, paid no attention to him.

So why did he suddenly feel like he was about to die in his own abject misery. Surely, he could brush it off. Walk away without a second look – as if he hadn't heard it. No one would bother enough to goad him on again, and if they did, he could simply keep on walking. Past the hallway, past the stairway, past the entrance doors and home. It wasn't as if the comment was based off any evidence or truth…. Unless someone had found out.

Again, he felt as though he couldn't move, and he was so consumed in his own fear that he didn't realize that the taunting words had continued and been met with terrified whimpering. And, to his great relief, it wasn't his own.

He looked up, ready to bolt at his chance at escape, when he saw the object of humiliation. Cornered against a row of lockers, a boy of Harry's age quivered before a sneering group of boys. He was fair-skinned and blond, and against such pale colors, the hastening red in his tearful eyes stood out viciously.

"Aw, what, is the little faggot boy gonna cry home to his mommy?" Taunted one boy. Harry recognized him as a boy on the track team. He'd remembered him because although his school wasn't overly obsessed with their team sports, this guy had been one of the louder jocks, reeling in all the popularity he could from his athleticism. He was tall, with dark skin, and though he was several feet away, his eyes looked so dark, Harry doubted if the irises could be told apart from the pupils. Behind him stood the other two boys, jeering and laughing.

"Oh, wait." He continued when he got no response. "I forgot, you can't. No mother would take home a disgraceful cocksucer like you."

And just like that, Harry snapped. It was as if Harry were looking back at himself nearly one year ago, only this boy had nowhere to run. He was trapped and needed help, and goddamnit, Harry was going to give it.

Without thinking of the consequences, without processing the fact that he was by no means any match whatsoever for these boys – all of which were at least a half foot taller that him – he walked over to the boys – calm, but raging – and growled, "Let him go."

All four heads turned sharply towards him and the self-appointed leader of the pack growled back, "What?"

"I said," Harry began, now beginning to lose his nerve. No, not nerve, for nothing was going to make him back down. But he was certainly more terrified than he could remember being since he and Draco had been discovered. He ploughed on. "Let him go."

"Oh yeah?" the guy said, actually letting the boy go in the process. But his lackeys quickly took up his job, keeping the boy pinned with two menacing glares and a roughly shoved arm. "And what the hell," the final word emphasized with a painful shove, "are you going to do about it if I don't?"

And then, because he _didn't_ know what he was going to do about it (because trust me, if he had known, he would _not_ have done it) he faked a retreat like something out of a teen movie and quickly turned back, a punch flying at the other boy. In the moment just before his arm made the full stretch, Harry wished for a quick (and perhaps not _overly_ excruciating) death.

As with all things in life, fortune and misfortunate presented themselves together to Harry. Fortunately, the other boy had taken Harry as such a joke that the punch had completely taken him by surprise, and Harry's fist had actually made contact. Unfortunately (other than the fact that Harry was 5' 5" and carried about as much muscle as a fish), Harry's punching experience was so little – none, in fact – and the boy was so much taller than he, that although Harry's fist did, indeed, make contact, it only scuffed awkwardly against the other boy's chin, and was so poorly executed, that it actually hurt Harry a great deal more than it had hurt the boy. The boy's slight stumble backwards was an act of pure shock and was quickly overcome as he raged back towards Harry, an experienced fist ominously aimed.

He felt the pain as a series of temperatures. First hot, then cold, then suddenly burning, _throbbing_ hot. The entire right side of his face was on _fire_, and he could hardly remember having fallen on the floor. But the boy quickly righted that situation, dragging him up and against the lockers for better aim. Suddenly, there were people yelling, "Fight, fight, fight!" and one voice, the cornered boy's, yelling, "Stop! Stop! Somebody help him, please!" and then another voice, officious, yelling, "What is going on in here?!" It was over almost before it had even begun as students raced to get away and flee to the safety of class.

Harry felt the rough hold on his shirt rip away in a flash of cool (oh so blissfully cool) air against his face, but the officious voice now sounded again, "And where do you think you're going, Mr. Jacobs?"

"He attacked me first! It was self-defense." Harry vaguely heard Jacobs yell in his direction. He was still lost in the absolute _throbbing_ of his face.

"I'm sure you were very scared," the man shot back sarcastically. "I want you in my office now, and the rest of you, back to class." Harry realized he was sliding to the floor when a hand shot out to help him. "I said _all _of you," the man repeated, and the hand shot back. Not believing for a second that Jacobs would help him, Harry momentarily opened his eyes to see the fair boy's retreating back. He looked back and Harry almost thought he'd been punched again. For a moment, he thought he saw clear, grey eyes, but then the boy was looking forward and quickly moving away, not wanting to get caught alone with the two cronies again.

"And you," the man continued, pulling Harry away from his shock. He suddenly recognized the man as the school principle. "Harry Potter, isn't it? I want you to report to Ms. Miranda. You shouldn't – I don't want you to worry about this. Let her help you."

"Aw, what?" Jacobs cried. "He attacks me and all he gets is a talk with the school counselor?"

"Oh, he attacked you, did he? And where, may I ask, did the fatal the blows land?"

"On my face!"

"Really? Because other than some rather pesky acne, I don't see any marks on you at all."

"Are you serious? Just because he's a fucking girl at fighting doesn't mean he should get away with it!"

"Mr. Jacobs, you are already facing suspension. Now, I suggest you pray to God Mr. Potter's parents don't press charges and follow me silently to my office before that nasty mouth of yours earns you a month of detention." Finally satisfied Jacobs would shut up, the principle turned to Harry and asked, "Do you need any help getting to the counselor's office?"

Harry shook his head no and quickly regretted it as the throbbing increased. The two walked away and Harry headed painfully back towards Ms. Miranda's office. All in all, Harry didn't think he would remember today as a particularly happy one.

**AN: **YES! Finally, you may expect the next few chapters to include a lot less drama and self-pity. Thank god! I was really getting tired of Harry's attitude (understandable as it may be).

Thank you guys so much for all your reviews. It really means a lot to me that some of you have stuck with me even after all this time. Of course, it still feels like I've lost a lot of readers (my own fault, of course), so if there are more of you out there reading, please do let me know in a review. It's really great motivation when I'm only halfway through the chapter in the middle of the week and I see a new review. (My favorite reviews are the ones that try to guess what's going to happen next. Although I always like when you guys get really angry, happy, and/or sad about a character.)

Also, please let me know how you felt about the random parenthetical interjections. I used a bit more in this chapter (perhaps because I was in a rambling/playful mood…? And yes, this is yet another parenthetical), but I'm not sure if it worked or not. It may have taken away from the chapter. Either way, let me know.

**xoxo Spideria xoxo**


	9. Chapter 9

**Rolling Seasons**

**Chapter 9**

**Spideria**

_Well, that went well_, Harry thought to himself hours later as he sat alone, nursing his still aching face. After an hour spent trying to make out his counselor's words through the dizzying froth in his head, he had finally given in and lain back to take in the barrage of scolding words. It wasn't as if anything he could do would incline her otherwise.

She ranted about thinking he'd made progress and explaining that there was a difference between accepting who he was and getting into fights to try to force others to accept who he was (_What the hell was she on about? _Harry had had to ask himself. This Jacobs guy hadn't even been picking on him! Well, on second thought, that probably wasn't the most persuasive bit of information… She'd probably start in on him for jumping into fights that didn't concern him.). She'd complained that he needed to make friends, not enemies, and that if he ever wanted to have friends his own age, he had to be more _amenable_ to the opinions of others (_What a load of crap._).

_He_ had wanted to explain to _her_ that there was a difference between being "amenable the opinions of others" and acting in as someone's punching bag – metaphorically speaking, that is. _He_ had wanted to explain to _her _that he didn't _need_ any friends at this stupid school because if _these_ were the people he had to choose from, he'd rather spend the rest of his life conversing with imaginary talking pigs. _He_ had wanted to explain to _her_ that he was perfectly fine and comfortable with who he was, and even if he wasn't, that was none of her goddamn business.

But he said none of this, of course.

His parents had been called in to pick him up. Perfect. His mother had arrived first (of course). She had taken one look at him before breaking into tears. All he could think was: _What the hell is she crying about? __**I'm**__ the one who just got his face bashed in._

She had taken a different approach.

"Is this what the rest of his life is going to be like? What the rest of _our_lives are going to be like?"she'd asked, the words muffled through a shaking hand. She spent the next half hour begging for his counselor's advice. Would he ever make any friends? What could she do differently at home? How could she prevent this from happening again? She had tried talking to him; she had tried; she had tried! What else could she do?

For his part, Harry had tried to offer an explanation. He was just trying to help the poor kid out, cut him some slack. He didn't initiate the fight. (If you could call one stupendously painful punch followed by a not-so-stupendous fall, a fight.) In fact, he didn't even see it coming, because had he seen it coming, you can be sure that he would have turned high tail and run (quickly) in the opposite direction.

But this was before his mom had arrived, and Ms. Miranda had paid his words little attention. He could see no reason to waste his breath again – and most certainly not on his mother. She was so paranoid it would make even less of a difference. Here was a women to whom he had confessed his one and only love, to whom he had confided in the hopes of compassion and who had spat it right back in his face.

It surprised him only slightly that even after all this time, he was still so incredibly bitter about everything that had happened. Every time he thought about it, it was as if those horrid events had just happened. He wished he could get over it, wished he could move on, but he couldn't. He wasn't ready. He was not ready move on or to pretend to forget or to have the ever-eminent all-telling talk. Not now. Not while his face was still astonishingly pulsing with pain. And not while he felt so unbelievably embarrassed.

Because that was the most salient emotion coursing through his veins at the moment. He was angry, yes. But more than that, he was embarrassed. His first fight ever, and not only did he go down hard and fast; the other guy had gotten off unscathed and, as Nurse Pomfrey scrambled in to check for any fractured facial bones, Harry now found himself surrounded by swooning women. She had _aaawed_ and cooed and prodded here and there (entirely more roughly than necessary, in his opinion) until she had discerned that he was fine, though "just barely." She'd muttered an irritated, "Get yourself into this sort of trouble again, and I'll make sure to finish the job, myself," punctuating her statement with a final, painful prod.

How utterly embarrassing.

After another half hour of Mr. Miranda trying to calm his frantic mother down, his father had arrived. He looked flustered, his face red and his breathing uneven, as if he had rushed al the way there, but once Harry had looked up, the man's gait had changed. He had shuffled in, his eyes on the ground and unable to look into Harry's own. After a moment of silence, he had muttered a faint, "Are you alright?"

Harry felt true humiliation, then. What father wanted to have an only son who was too weak to stand up to a couple of minor bullies? A son who gets one punch and ends up in an office cloistered with frantic, fretting women? It was awful in every sense imaginable. If Ron had been here, he would have positively died. He wished with all his might that he had never given up basketball, that he worked out all the time, that he were stronger and more capable of defending himself. Perhaps then he could have avoided this mortifying experience. This was an insignificant, clumsy schoolboy fight, and he had been totally annihilated.

He couldn't even bare to think what Draco must be suffering in prison.

He was still angry with his father, but he could only imagine how upset his father must be with him. How utterly shameful to have such a weak and unable son. A son who can't even stand up for what he believes in. Then again, what father wanted a son who got off watching other boys and dating their high school English teacher?

It was stupid that he was thinking this way. Positively stupid. Bitter, he looked away, finding that he, too, was unable to look his father in the eye. It bothered him that he still felt so insecure – even embarrassed – about his sexuality. After all he'd been through, he felt it was the least he could do to honor what he'd had with Draco by being strong and proud of who he was, what they had had together.

But even now, he couldn't. Even now, he was still unsure of himself, unsure of the way people would perceive him. He still so desperately wanted to be accepted. He burned with shame to admit that he so desperately wanted to have someone be proud of him, to have someone he could know would always love him. What a childish desire.

"Harry," Ms. Miranda urged.

God, did he have to respond? He didn't want to talk anymore. He'd said his stand, he'd explained his view on the events. If they didn't want to listen, fine, but why make him continue? What did they want from him?

"Harry, your father asked you if you're alright."

_Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!_

"I'm fine." _Please let that be enough. Please, please. I'm done. I'm so, so done. I just want everything to be done, now. It was a stupid mistake. I'll never do it again. I promise, I promise. Just let me go. Unless you're going to listen to me and tell me you understand, tell me everything's okay… unless you're going to make me feel better, just stop. Stop, stop._

James nodded, but said nothing more.

Harry was glad when they finally left.

On the way home, Lily had ignored Harry's frustrated protests and made James stop the car at a pharmacy to buy an icepack. But Harry had been too angry and humiliated to take it the whole ride home, and once they'd pulled into the drive, he'd raced into his room without a backward glance. Now, here he sat, alone in his room, a careful hand cradling his face.

The whole thing had seemed so dramatic, and now he just felt tired. It was as if they'd been rehearsing for a play to someone else's life. Could so many problems really burden one boy's life? His life? What ever happened to normal teenage problems? Not getting a date to the dance or forgetting to study for a test or losing your favorite coat at a basketball game?

With a sigh, he lay his head back against the headboard of his bed. He was doomed to a life of resignation. What to do, what to do…?

Curious, he pressed his middle finger lightly against his cheek. _Ouch_. He could only imagine how bad it must look.

In fact, he realized, with all the commotion following the whole noisy ordeal, he hadn't even gotten the chance to properly look at himself. He had vaguely recognized a blurred image in the car rearview mirror, but too busy pushing away the proffered icepack, he had barely paid any attention. Now, he wanted to know.

Swiftly, he stood up and walked over to his full-length mirror.

_Woah_, was his first reaction. His eyes went wide as he got a good look at the right side of his face. It was slightly disappointing, really, that he didn't have a black eye. After all that pain, he expected to at least bear the trademark "shiner." But he hadn't been punched in the eye; he'd been punched square on the cheek, and right where the bone was, there ran a brush of dried blood. Odd, he hadn't remembered there being any blood.

This, however, seemed to serve as the target spot in the off-center bull's eye, for the rest of his cheek gleamed with a sickening shade of puffy purple. It was strange to see how one punch could literally change the shape of his face, even if only temporarily. Though he was loathe to admit it, that Jacobs fellow must have sent a pretty powerful punch. Which made him feel at least slightly better about his abrupt knock out.

After all, he had survived a mighty, even fatal, blow.

Quite impressive, actually. And he smiled, which was a bad and oh so painful thing. So he quickly stopped.

A sudden knock at the door drew his attention, and he quickly stepped away from the mirror.

"What do you want?" He didn't want to deal with his parents right now. Despite the (morbid) pride at bearing such a gruesome welt, he was still stinging with the pain of humiliation. Powerful or not, he had stood no chance whatsoever against that other boy. Much less him and his two cronies. He hadn't believed such a punch was even possible. It had seemed only a thing out of Hollywood for such dramatic (or rather, not so dramatic) ends to teenage fights.

And buried beneath the humiliation of not being able to fight back was the burning humiliation that he had wanted, though he would never admit it aloud, to impress the boy he'd attempted to defend. He had wanted to show him that there was a way to stand up to such bullies, that he didn't have to just sit back and take all their immature, hurtful crap. He had wanted to be someone's knight in shining armor; he hade wanted to be the knight he'd never had. Because Draco, as great as he was, had never been able to stand up and defend him. Obliged under the circumstances, Draco had had to remain in the background, watching from afar and hoping that nothing too bad happened.

Now what was the boy going to think? Who would defend that boy? No one, and that boy now knew it without any morsel of doubt. If he had ever hoped for some escape, he now knew there was none.

How incredibly fucked up Harry had just made his life. And he didn't even know the boy's name.

"Harry." The call came from the door. It was his dad. A few moments of silence passed before James urged on, "Can I come in?"

He didn't answer, couldn't answer. He was still so lost in his own thoughts. How was he going to go back to school tomorrow? Even if that brute of a bully was suspended, his cronies would be there, and besides, the whole school had seen. Even if they couldn't remember his face, they would know it was him once they saw his blowfish face. The taunts would come. They would call him a pussy (what a crude term) and a weakling. They might even call him a fag and a cocksucker. Because who else would defend another boy being accused of those same taunts?

It didn't matter, truly, because it wasn't as if he was friends with any of them. It wasn't as if he had anything (or anyone) to lose – not like when he'd been home in England. But the words would hurt nonetheless. If he'd been a reject before, he didn't know what the other students would call him, now. What was worse than being a reject?

"Harry," came the voice from the door again. He didn't want to see his father. Especially not after everything he'd said to him this morning. He had meant what he'd said, yes, because it was true. His father had been a lifeless robot since they'd arrived to America, and he was sick and tired of it! He wanted a father who loved him or even hated him, but something! Some sort of sign of recognition, a sign that he acknowledged Harry's presence as another human being. But he hadn't meant for it to come out so harshly.

He wished his father would just go away, just leave him alone so that they could forget any of this had ever happened, but after a final look at his reflection, he realized it was an impossible dream. He couldn't just erase the past – he knew that too well. The best he could do was try to lay everything out and work to mend what he had broken.... Broken feelings, broken hearts. He walked up to the door and twisted the handle open. Without a word, he walked back to his bed and sat.

James stood awkwardly at the doorway. In his hand, hung the limp icepack.

"I don't want that stupid icepack." Oh, but he did. The dull throbbing seemed to burn hotter in protest to his idiocy.

Ignoring the comment, James walked over to the bed and sat down beside Harry. Gently, he took his son's hand. Too stunned at the sudden contact, Harry only watched as James placed the icepack in his hand and raised it to his burning cheek. A shiver ran down his spine, and he knew it had nothing to do with the icepack.

"What do you want?" He repeated, this time in an earnest whisper.

He could see the struggle in James's shining eyes and twitching lips. "Harry," he said. They stared at each other for an endless moment before James shook his head slowly and then abruptly engulfed him in a hug. "My boy, my beautiful, beautiful son."

"What?" He tried to laugh in order to throw off the tears, but they ran down, anyway. Why the hell was he crying? His dad hadn't even really said anything, and already he was crying. It was as if some switch had been set off, and now he was just inexplicably crying. "Wait, stop." He tried to push James away, tried to push the tears away, but neither would give. "Dad, stop. Stop, this isn't fair." What wasn't fair? He didn't know. What was wrong with him?

"I love you. I love you so much." Was his dad crying, too? "I'm so s-sorry. So sorry, so sorry."

"Dad-"

"I don't care that you were with him. I don't care that you loved him, that you love men –"

"Dad, stop it—"

"No, Harry, I need to say this." He grabbed on more tightly. "I've been so stupid. I would have continued being stupid. Even after this morning. But when I saw you today…. It was a face I could have seen at a morgue! I know what happens to people when they're not seen as normal. I know how much harder life can be when you stand for your beliefs and ignore what everyone says, even when it seems like the whole world is against you. I've seen it. I've seen it, myself.

"When I first found out…. I was terrified for you. Not because I thought you different or strange, but because I knew that that's what most people would think. When I was younger… there was this boy. He was from my town; he'd lived there all his life. The town where I grew up was small, you know that, and so everyone had known this boy all their lives. He wasn't some stranger or a new kid in town that we could just stigmatize and call a freak. We knew him. We'd seen him lose his first teeth, and he'd seen us lose ours. We'd learned to ride bikes together and lie to our parents, and….

"But when we got older, this boy – his name was Simon – started acting a little different. Or rather, he didn't go on to act the way we did. I mean, we were growing boys. We wanted to sneak dirty magazines from our parents' rooms or try to buy them at the drugstore. But he, he never did.

"A couple of kids got suspicious and started saying a lot of really mean stuff about him; they started guessing about what his preferences might be. One day, me and this guy, his name was Danny, we followed Simon after school, and… we caught him. We caught him meeting up with a guy in this little shed we used to play in when we were kids. And they were… doing things. Things that I guess we'd been aiming to do with girls. But this was another guy Simon was with, and we…. Well, we…."

His voice faltered. Harry felt the wracking sob that shook both their bodies. He felt a sudden chill, not wanting to hear the rest of the story. But he had to know. He had to let him finish.

"I was shocked. I didn't even know that sort of thing existed. I just wanted to walk away and forget the whole thing had ever happened. But Danny… Danny, he got really mad. You know? The way that sometimes you get mad just because. You don't have any real reason, but there's something you don't — something you don't understand. And I think we fear that. We get really scared when we can't explain everything in our lives and when there's something that might disturb the comfort of habit and routine….

"So he locked them in. I don't even know who the other kid was. Someone from a neighboring town, I guess. He looked terrified, but I hardly even registered it. I just stood there. I didn't really know what to do. I mean, we were kids, and something really strange was happening. I didn't even really think it was happening. It was like a movie or something. So I just stood there.

"They screamed and banged against the door; they were begging to be let out. Simon, he was… he was…." He stopped again, before inhaling deeply. Another sob.

"He was apologizing like he'd done something wrong. He kept saying 'I'm sorry, Danny. I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! Please, I promise! I'll never do it again!' I don't think he even noticed I was there. But he noticed Danny because…. Because Danny, he was so mad; he didn't listen. He didn't even say anything.

"Finally, after we stood there for a long time, Danny told me to stand there and watch them, to make sure they didn't get out. He said he was going to make sure everyone learned an important lesson that day.

"And then Simon noticed I was there. I remember him looking at my face through the cracks in the wooden planks of the shed. He had these brilliant green eyes, just like your mothers'. Just like yours.

"Then he started telling _me_ he was sorry. He said, 'James, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. Please don't be mad at me. Please forgive me!' I didn't even know what I could possibly forgive him for. The other boy looked so frightened, he couldn't even talk. He might have been younger than us. But I didn't do anything. I didn't let them out. I just stood there, not understanding.

"Finally, Danny came back, and he'd brought back a bunch of kids from our school. They were jeering and pointing and making all these threats, calling them all these awful names. And standing in front of them all was Danny… with a bottle of…. He was holding a bottle of kerosene."

Harry was breathing raggedly. His head felt heavy, and he wanted his dad to stop. He didn't want to hear this horrid ending. He couldn't.

"I didn't even know what it was at first until he started pouring it all around the shed like in the movies. Then I got scared. I told him to stop. I said he was being stupid. I tried to argue with him by saying stupid things, kids' arguments. I said we'd get detention forever and then we'd never get to go to high school with the big kids. But he said everyone would forgive us, that they would thank us for doing such a n-… a noble thing. He said they had to burn in the fires of hell if they ever hoped to be purged of their sins, and that it was our duty to make it happen. I didn't know what to say to that.

"Someone else passed him a match. Everyone was screaming and yelling. I felt really dizzy; it was as if I was watching everything from afar. I don't even think anyone else really knew what was going on. We were all kids. This was maybe just a game to bunch of them. But it wasn't. It was real.

"And Simon, when he saw all this happening, he started screaming bloody murder. He was yelling and apologizing and crying like I'd never seen him before. I'd never seen anyone cry like that. His screams were so pained. And then I started crying, and I yelled at Danny to stop. I went to open the door, but he said that if I touched the door, he'd set fire right then and send me to hell with them. And I believed him.

"The next thing I knew, this girl named Melanie, this really quiet girl who'd never really had any friends, she jumped at Danny and started clawing at his face. Pretty soon, everyone was in on it. It was just this wild fight of pent-up rage because I don't think anyone really wanted to hurt Simon. They were just confused at everything that was happening and they needed some sort of outlet. So they all switched over and started attacking Danny.

"I took my chance and unlocked Simon and the other boy, but we were making so much noise by then, and we weren't very far at all from a set of houses, so a couple of parents had run over to us and started breaking everyone apart by then. The other boy, the one no one knew, he ran off right away. But Simon, he stayed and looked at me for a while. He didn't say anything, but I saw the look in his eyes. It was awful. It was as if he didn't even know me; as if he was trying to figure out if I was really the boy he'd known all his life.

"Danny ended up with a broken arm and had to get a couple of nasty gashes on his face stitched up. The shed was taken down – it was old and rundown, anyway. Simon's family ended up moving away, and I never saw him again. But I never forgot him either."

He stopped, and the room went silent.

Harry didn't know what to say; he didn't know if he was expected to say anything at all.

Finally, James continued.

"It's a dangerous life, and I know what could happen to you; I know what some people could be driven to do, and I don't want you to have to face it alone.

"When I saw you today, it was as if my worst fears had become a reality. It was as if I was facing Simon all over again except this time it was too late. And I felt so ash- so ashamed! My own son, and I can't even protect him! The fear is everywhere. In the streets, in school…. I want you to have _some_ place safe. I want you to feel safe at home."

His voice fell into a fierce whisper.

"I want you to know that I am so proud of you. I don't care if you like men or women, if you want to date someone older or younger. I don't care about any of that. I just want you to be happy and safe. I want you to be able to come home to me when you meet someone you like. Be it a man or a woman, I want you to be proud of the person you love so that you can be proud of yourself. And I want you to know, I really want you to know, that I am proud of you, and I love you."

"Dad…."

"Harry, I never wanted you to think any less. I was… I was ashamed. Not of you. Of myself, of my own actions. I know what it cost you to leave everything… everyone you love at home. It was wrong of your mother and I to make you do this. But after everything that happened, I didn't know what to do, and you're mother, she seemed so sure…. I'm not blaming her, but Harry, I need you to understand. I didn't know what to do.

"But believe me when I say that you could never disappoint me. I could never feel anything but absolute love for you. If I haven't shown emotion since we left England, it's only because I can't bear to risk the chance that you will push me away the way you push your mother away. I couldn't take it, Harry. I just couldn't. Please don't push me away, now."

Harry froze.

"You asked me what I want. This is what I want. I know I don't have any right to ask it, but I want you to find it in yourself to love me the way I love you. Because I do. I do. I love you so much, my son. My little boy."

Harry's mind was reeling. He felt lost and confused, but underneath it all, he felt a wonderful flood of relief sweep throughout his body, beyond his limbs, around his core, over his now negligible wounded face.

He didn't say anything. He didn't want to. But not because he wanted his father to go away. This time, he didn't say anything because he knew that words would sully the moment. There were no words good enough to express his feelings towards his father.

Instead, he cried some more and tried to share his pulsing feelings of love, relief, forgiveness, and gratitude through the warm embrace they shared. And when he woke up the next morning, he would realize he had fallen asleep pressed safely against his father's chest.

* * *

"Tommy, Johnny, Karl! Fucking Christ! How are yehs?"

Draco was going into shock. Before him stood the largest brutes – er, men, he had ever seen.

Now, Draco liked to pride himself on his full height of six foot two, yes, that's right, six feet and two inches of tall, masculine beauty. But if he thought that he was tall, these guys were irrefutable giants. He had never realized how much difference an extra four inches could make! The shortest standing at six foot six, and the tallest at six foot nine, he was amazed they had fit at all through the small prison doors.

And they weren't just well-endowed in the height department. Draco didn't know anything about average human widths, but these guys easily tripled his size in chest, stomach, legs and arms. And it was all muscle.

It was for this reason that when Paul punch one of them in the arm before cussing in address to them, Draco very nearly slapped a hand over his friend's mouth before dragging him away with a fountain of effusive apologies. But when the men each punched Paul back (How had he not shattered into a thousand pieces already??) and squeezed him into what Draco had first assumed was an attempt at homicide by suffocation, but then (reluctantly) realized was a hug, the blond realized that these were Paul's "not scrappy like him" cousins.

This did not stop him from flinching in absolute terror when the tallest of them turned to him with an outstretched hand. He was faced with an important and life-altering decision, then. To sacrifice his beautiful hand, used so many times to write a paper in high school, college, and after, or to die a more horrifying death by refusing the man's hand…?

Well, he would just have to learn to write with his left hand.

"Draco, mate! Calm down, take his hand! This is Johnny! And that's Tommy and Karl! They're my cousins – the ones I was talkin' 'bout last week!"

He put on what he hoped didn't appear as too frightened of a smile. Johnny's amused laughter didn't convince him he'd succeeded.

"Hi... Tommy." He finally said. "Johnny, Karl. It's a pleasure to meet you three fine young men. Paul's spoken very fondly of you all."

"Ah, big words, eh? You must be the guy who's been keepin' our little cousin Paully company all this time, then, yeah?" Johnny, or perhaps it was Karl, asked. They all had the same dark features and impressive height.

"Just because you three are absolute beasts does not mean that I am 'little'!"

Tommy laughed, and Karl (or Johnny) ruffled Paul's hair.

"Well, Draco, I'd say thanks fer keepin' an eye out on 'im, but I'd doubt you could hurt a mouse, yerself."

"Johnny!" Aha! So he'd been right. The slightly shorter one _was_ Johnny!

"It's fine." Draco cut it with an abashed smile. "It's true."

"Well, don't get too down on yerself about it. Yeh can't be much worse than little Paully, here. Did yeh know 'e got caught on 'is first heist ever?"

"Johnny, shut up!" But the taller man ignored him.

"All his life 'e wanted ter be like us. We'd go out ter _borrow_ a car or take out a _loan_ at the local supermarket, and little Paully here would beg to come along with us. But we never let 'im, o' course. We were late in our teens when 'e was still ten, and besides, his mum would've had our necks!"

"Really, Johnny, feel free to stop any—"

"Well, anyway," Tommy cut in while Johnny pulled Paul into a headlock. "One day, we head out fer a little visit ter the new co-op in our dear ol' Uncle Arthur's car when we hear a thumpin' in the boot. We wait till we get ter the co-op before pullin' over and checkin' out what the bloody hell's goin' on with our car."

"No, really," Paul wheezed out from what now looked to be a painful chokehold. "You can stop whenever—"

"The little bugger had snuck inter the back of the car!" Johnny shouts, letting Paul go for an instant. The thin man quickly stumbled away and ran over to stand behind Draco.

"Well sure, but that only goes ter show how stealthy I am!"

"No, it goes ter show how stupid yeh are!"

"Anyway," Karl finally took up the story. "We weren't about to call the plan off. It was the store's openin' day, and no way were we goin' ter miss that. Everyone knows they load up their cash registers with both lots of money from eager customers and extra change to make sure they can _accommerdate_ 'em all. So we decided, fuck it. We'll let him join in."

"Bad decision." Draco looked at Johnny, then back at Paul, who seemed to have found something wonderfully fascinating upon a wall on the far left.

"Not only does the litte shit screw everything' up by shootin' off his gun—"

"It was an accident!"

"And throwin' everyone's attention off so that the store manager got to press the emergency button, but then 'e calls out our names, and we have ter hightail it out o' there!"

"It was rotten luck because 'e's our little cousin, and we didn't want nothin' bad ter happen to 'im, but everyone knows that it's each man fer 'imself in a high stakes situation, so when Paully here, couldn't get 'way from the cops fast enough, there weren't nothin' we could do but keep runnin' and hope 'e didn't get stuck with too much since we never even got ter steal nothing', anyway.

"But since 'e said our names, they connected him with us and threw a bunch of our old charges on him, guessing 'e must've been with us at the time, even though 'e didn't do any of it."

"Fuckin' corrupt system." Paul muttered.

"Fuckin' good lesson is what it is. Next time, yeh won't sneak inter the back of our car!"

"Okay, well now that yeh've completely ruined any chances I ever had o' holdin' a good reputation in jail, can we move on ter other topics?"

Draco laughed. "Paul, it's really not as if you ever had a chance."

The other three joined in the laughter as Paul playfully punched Draco's shoulder.

"Har, har, har. Very funny!"

"I see yeh've made at least one good friend, here, Paully."

"The name is Paul!"

But before he could finish his protest, one man shouted, "Tommy, is that you? And Johnny and Karl!" And then suddenly a hoard of prisoners – was it Draco, or did it seem like these were all the toughest prisoners Draco had taken special care to avoid during his time here? – came swarming in to punch and thump and slap the three men amicably.

This day was turning out to be quite surreal.

After about fifteen minutes of being engulfed by frightening – er, admirably muscular criminals, Draco thought it was just about time to make his escape. But a sudden twist of fate had Smitty ambling through to see what all the ruckus was about.

"What the hell is this?" Smitty, being one of said toughest prisoners Draco had taken special care to avoid, held no fear standing before the crowd of burly men.

No one seemed to pay much attention to him, though. They were too enrapt with catching up with Paul's cousins. Draco quickly tried to seek asylum within the throng of people as if he, too, had failed to notice Smitty's presence, but the other man was too fast. A swift hand reached out a gruffly pulled Draco in by the shoulder.

"And where the hell do yeh think yer goin', my little precious?"

Not saying a word, Draco struggled to pull away, figuring he could easily get lost within the dozen or so men crowding around.

"I don't think so," and with that, Smitty pulled him away from the other men and thrust him roughly against the wall. "Are you gonna tell me what's goin' on?"

"Nothing. Christ, I don't know! Some new guys came in. Apparently they're popular. That's all."

"You weren't thinkin' of enlisting their help, were you? You weren't thinkin' of tryin' to sneak away from me. Were you?" He squeezed fiercely between Draco's legs at the last question, eliciting a pained moan followed by a stifled gasp as he squeezed again. "Were you?"

"No. God, no! Let go – gah! Please." Draco strained not to let his voice rise too high. Smitty did not take well to cries for help.

"That's what I thought." Finally (finally!), he let go, and Draco thanked the rough texture of the wall for providing friction enough to stop him from falling irrevocably to the ground. Smitty gave him a light slap on the cheek before leaning close and growling lightly into his ear. Then he left, and Draco forced himself to wait a few moments before doing the same (in the opposite direction).

He never noticed the three brawny cousins watching him limp away. He never noticed that they'd been watching silently the whole time, and that they didn't plan to let his assailer go unpunished.

* * *

**AN: **Woah! Super long chapter! It felt like a chapter from Chasing the Forbidden. And you know, the story flows a lot better when I stretch the chapter out as opposed to having a lot of choppy scenes.

Also, this is one of the most emotionally intense chapters I've ever written. This went beyond fanfiction and gave voice to a larger problem that is still real and present in the world.

That said, I know I promised less drama in future chapters, but who am I kidding? This whole story is drama! I sat down to write the chapter and was like, woah, Harry's definitely still upset, and James has got something really driving him to act the way he does. He's not completely absurd (like Lily). I can't brush over this.

Anyway, I can promise that there's a lot _less_ drama for Harry in the next chapter. I can't make any promises for Draco, though. In fact, I give you an anti-promise for lack of drama concerning Draco in the next chapter.

So for all you lonely (and not-so-lonely) lovers on Valentine's Day, I know this isn't quite the uplifting chapter you might have been hoping for, but I hope this chapter provides some sort of comfort! Perhaps in knowing that your are not alone in your suffering! (Although, really, I hope none of you are suffering.) And look forward to the next chapter – there's lots of awesome stuff I've been waiting to write for a while finally coming up!

**PS –** **QUESTION: **Does this chapter length work better for you guys, too? Or did you like shorter chapters? I know sometimes it's easier to be able to rush through a short chapter when you're loaded with other work to do as opposed to having to work your way through a long chapter. Anyway, please let me know. If a lot of you guys review in favor, then I will try to make this a more or less constant length.

Much thanks!

**xoxo Spideria xoxo**


	10. Chapter 10

**Rolling Seasons**

**Chapter 9**

**Spideria**

**

* * *

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**IMPORTANT NOTE:** I don't usually start chapters with notes, anymore, so you know you should give this one a read. There's a masturbation scene in this chapter that I started writing as an NC-17 type deal before realizing I was on fanfiction(dot)net! So of course I erased it all and started again. However, I'd be interested in exploring the realm of NC-17 fiction writing (since I certainly read it often enough ;p), **so if you're interested in reading an NC-17 version of that scene, please let me know in a review with your email**. If enough people declare an interest, I'll write one up and send it to everyone. ^_^

* * *

Harry stood before the entrance to his school for a full five minutes debating whether switching his regular glasses for a pair of dark and nonprescription sunglasses would make it less or more obvious that he was the kid who'd just gotten seriously knocked out less than twenty-four hours ago. On the one hand, he'd be the only person wearing sunglasses in the still freezing, early March weather and blindly stumbling into things; on the other, he'd be the only one sporting a nasty, purple-yellow monster on his face. Decisions, decisions….

The bell rang, and he quickly folded the dark frames back into his jeans and jogged in through the doors. He couldn't be later for class. Again. Besides, he reminded himself, the bruise was on his cheek, not his eye; the glasses would do nothing to cover up his shame.

He hurried through the empty halls to his history class, thankful that everyone else had apparently already arrived to their classrooms. It would be much easier to deal with a class of blissfully silent, albeit gaping classmates than an entire hallway full of jeering, whispering, and laughing students away from the watchful eyes of teachers. Quietly slipping past the door to his history class, he ducked his way to a seat in the back of the room. The teacher had only just begun to speak, and so made no movement to call attention to his slight tardiness. Harry inwardly sighed and thought, _perhaps today won't be so bad after all_.

That is, until he heard a quiet _psst!_ and turned to see a boy to his right glaringly slide his index finger horizontally across his neck, motioning the death symbol. Harry would have laughed at the absurdity of such a ridiculous and antiquated gesture if he hadn't been so terrified. And confused. Until he looked down at the boy's clothes. There, resting across his shoulder, ostensibly innocuous to the uninformed viewer, was a green and white windbreaker jacket emblazoned with a fierce image of a fully open-hooded cobra, fangs outstretched and ready to attack. The school's track team jacket, to be more specific. _Oh,_ his mind silently squeaked. He hadn't realized he'd committed himself to a life of bullying by the entire track team.

It took him quite a considerable amount of absolute willpower not to run out of the classroom screaming like a wild animal (or perhaps a mouse – the cobra's next meal) and flinging his arms all the way up to Canada, where perhaps no one would know who he was and he would never make the utterly imbecilic mistake if picking a fight with a group of boys twice his size again. Instead, he silently turned his face forward and slunk lower down in his seat.

He could forget about hoping for an easy day. It was going to be a long and painful year.

* * *

As soon as the end of first period bell rang, Harry shot out the door and raced to his second class. He heard a rush of whispers as the students filed out behind him, but they quickly faded away, and he moved so quickly, no one else realized who he was along the way. This time, he sat in the very first row on the rightmost column so that the bruised side of his face was facing far and away from anyone else in the room. He spent the first twenty-five minutes anxiously shaking his knee until his English teacher, a mousy little woman, squeaked at him to stop.

He followed the same method of flight and hide for the next two periods until lunch, at which point he hurried past the schoolyard, aiming for anywhere far, far away. He was just about to turn the corner when he heard a voice determinedly call out, "Hey!" Ignoring the reflexive widening of his eyes, he continued forward, prepared to run if the voice came any closer. "Hey, wait!" he heard again, and he had just planted his left leg to push off into a sprint when the boy calling after him added, "You're the kid who tried to save me yesterday, right?"

_Oh_. Now that he thought about it, the voice did sound familiar. He turned tentatively toward the voice and saw that same scrawny-looking boy from the day before. Well, not so scrawny now that he got a better look. Perhaps because he had been too far at the time or perhaps because the boy's physique paled in comparison next to the three ogres from before, but it wasn't until the boy caught up to Harry that he realized the guy wasn't so much scrawny as lithe, just barely toned, but enough so that Harry could tell he was no stranger to a good workout. He stared for a moment, transfixed on the boy's body, wondering at his sudden attraction, before remembering himself and roughly tearing his gaze away.

_Stupid!_ He yelled at himself. He spared a quick glance to note the other teen's curious look, and cursed himself again.

The two were silent for another moment before the other boy finally said again, "hey."

"Hey."

Another moment. "Listen, I just wanted to… thank you. For what you did. Earlier. That was… Well, I mean, it was really nice of you. You didn't have to."

"Right," Harry replied, still not meeting his eyes.

The other boy waited a moment, watching Harry and hoping he might say something more. After a few minutes, it became clear that he wouldn't, and so he tried again. "Um… that bruise. Wow. Looks pretty bad. I guess someone probably should have warned you that Kevin can really pack a punch." A nervous laugh. Harry didn't respond. "Does it hurt?" The boy's hand twitch for a moment, as if he were making an effort not to raise it, but Harry paid little attention; he was still stuck on the absurd question. Indeed, Harry momentarily forgot his silent pact to stare at the ground in favor of giving the boy a ridiculous look.

_Of course it hurts, you idiot!_ Harry meant to convey with his eyes.

"Uh… right. Stupid question. Of course it hurts."

Message conveyed.

After Harry had returned to staring at the ground for another minute, the boy asked, "So, are you ever going to say anything?"

"What's there to say?"

"Uh, well, I don't know. Something. I mean, for Christ's sake, you just got the shit punched out of you for a total stranger and now you won't even talk to me. Doesn't really make sense if you ask me."

"Well, I didn't ask you. And I shouldn't have done in the first place. Now I've got an entire track team trying to kill me."

The boy laughed. "Well, not the whole time."

"Are you kidding? Some random track guy I've never even seen before already threatened to murder me just this morning."

"Well, I'm not gonna kill you. Promise." At Harry's raised brow, he continued. "I'm on the track team, too."

"Right. That's why your own teammates want to kill you."

"Well, it's _because_ they're my teammates that they want to kill me. Not to toot my own horn, but I'm the fastest runner on the team, and fucking Kevin's out to make sure I don't beat him at regionals this year. Again." Harry only stared. The boy laughed again. "It's true! I may look like a twig, and I am, but I swear, it comes in handy for track. That's what Kevin doesn't get. He thinks if he just keeps loading on the muscle, his legs will just fling him across the track, but he should be thinking longer term. It's more about being light. A little muscle, yes, but the lighter you are, the less weight there is to carry. Well, on long distance, anyway. I'm not quite as good at the hundred meter. Actually, I'm much better suited to cross-country, but that was two seasons ago, and I've gotta keep in shape somehow."

"But… you don't wear a track team jacket."

"That's because I hate what they stand for. Kevin and his ass hole friends use them to be these superstars and make everyone trip over themselves in admiration. I just like to run."

Harry shook his head in disbelief. "This is crazy."

The boy gave a brilliant smile. "Anyway, like I said, I just wanted to thank you for stepping in yesterday. I mean, they probably wouldn't have actually done me any _real _harm – I think our coach would murder them if they injured his fastest runner – but it's nice that you stood up for me even without anything to gain. I mean, god, you probably think I'm some fucking fag or something," - he chanced a quick glance at Harry as he said this, and Harry made absolute certainty not to show any facial reaction, though he felt himself wince just a bit inside – "but I'm not. I mean – I'm not. Really. I'm not. They were just … god, I don't even know why they started in with that. I guess it's just the easiest way to put a guy down, right? I mean, who wants to be a fag?"

Harry just nodded wordlessly, hating himself as he did so. This was exactly why he hadn't wanted to make friends. It was easy to convince himself he wasn't hiding the truth when he wasn't confronted with it. As long as no one asked, he could claim to be out and proud and not at all in the closet. He could simply reason that no one had asked, so he'd not yet had the option to tell. But now, now he was standing before a boy using that horrible word, and he was fucking agreeing with him. He was ashamed and angry. And not at the boy, but at himself.

"I have to go," he suddenly muttered.

"Wh-what? What do you mean? We've still got over thirty minutes of lunch left."

"Yeah, but I just – I have to go. I have to get lunch. I'm buying somewhere else. At a pizzeria." He couldn't tell whether the lie had been convincing or not.

"Oh, well, that sounds cool. I'll go with you." Oosh. Apparently too convincing.

"What? No, that's alright."

"No, really, I want to."

"Well maybe I don't!" he yelled, angrier than before. But he'd scowled too strongly, and now his bruise throbbed, and he couldn't hide the pained wince the shadowed his face. The boy, who'd been momentarily taken aback suddenly looked sympathetic.

"Geez. He really laid it on you." Harry didn't answer, and the boy stepped closer. Harry suddenly felt three fingertips gently pressed against his discolored cheek and looked up, startled, into a pair of impossible close pale gray eyes. It felt so warm. So nice. Those eyes. Oh, my god, he was rebounding again.

This was not happening.

He jerked away, roughly shouting, "What the hell are you doing?"

The boy grew paler than usual and suddenly pulled back farther, has hand held out and away from him as if covered in something disgusting. He looked at it, almost not processing that this hand belonged to him. "God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. It was just – you just – it looked like it hurt. I just – I don't know what I was thinking." He kept shaking his head, appalled at his own actions. "Look, let's just forget about it, alright?"

Harry was reeling. What the _hell_? First this boy claims how awful it is to be a fag, and then he touches Harry's face, gazes into his eyes, steps so close Harry felt his breath against his forehead…? Just what the hell was this kid playing at? He was not at all sure that he wanted to find out.

"Right. I'd better go." Harry turned to leave.

"Well, wait! You don't even know my name."

"Do I need to?" Harry was quickly growing weary.

"Well, I mean, I know yours."

"How the hell do you—"

"The principle. When he said it. 'Harry Potter." And anyway, it's not like people didn't know, anyway. You're the foreign kid with a hot British accent." Harry gaped. "I mean, according to the girls, of course."

"Right."

"So… you wanna know?"

Harry shrugged his shoulder, noncommittal.

"Well, it's Michael."

The boy watch for a moment, looking as if he were waiting for Harry to say something, expecting something specific. Not knowing what to say, Harry simply shrugged. "Okay."

"Okay," Michael mimicked, nodding his head. "So… I'll see you around."

Harry just shrugged, not quite making eye contact. He turned to finally escape, but only made it two steps before Michael called out again.

"Harry, wait!"

"Bloody Christ, if you tell me to wait one more time, I'm liable to attack you. Just say everything you need to say in one go so that I can leave and be on my way!"

The blond seemed to lose his nerve a bit at Harry's harsh retort, but he pushed forward nonetheless. "You should come to a meet. Some time. Our first meet is next week. Nothing serious, just a sort of scrimmage type thing. Just practice. But you should come. We could hang out. Afterwards. And I could prove I'm not lying about the whole thing." He gave a small laugh again, and it was the only thing that kept Harry from brushing him off again. Hearing the laugh again, the echo of the somewhat confident boy that had approached him at the start of this conversation, made him realize how nervous he'd made the blond. God, what an ass he must be to turn a happy, smiling guy into a complete nervous wreck. Was he really that off-putting?

_Well, obviously_, a voice muttered sardonically in his mind.

"Er… you know, maybe."

"Yeah, maybe. You should really think about it."

"Mmmhmm."

"Okay."

"Yep."

"Well…. See you."

"Sure."

And with that, Harry walked away from perhaps the most awkward conversation of his life.

* * *

As he lay in his bed later that night, he wondered about this new Michael character. He was a bit odd, definitely. But also fairly attractive. Too attractive. He still couldn't believe he'd let himself get caught checking the damn guy out. God, though, it was an interesting sort of attraction. He could barely remember the last time he was attracted to a guy his same age, which was a fairly disturbing thought, he realized. He spent a moment trying to figure out why he worked so fervently to pay little to no attention to guys his own age before quickly summing it up to a case of wanting to be with someone who knows what he wants.

_Take the case of Michael versus Sebastion_, for example, he thought, before quickly scratching that thought out. The topic was still oh so recent, and just ever so slightly too sensitive. _Okay_, he tried again. _Michael versus insert-nameless-guy-I-fucked-once-upon-a-time-ago_. The difference, as he reasoned, was that there was no confusion with _insert-nameless-guy-I-fucked-once-upon-a-time-ago. _In fact, _insert-nameless-guy-I-fucked-once-upon-a-time-ago_ (let's call him Mac, for short) knew exactly what he wanted, and directly asked for it of Harry. Mac was a fully-grown adult who had already gone through the trials of teenage acceptance. He was out of the closet and direct about it.

Michael, on the other hand, was not. In fact, Harry had no idea _what_ Michael was. He had definitely sent Harry a meaningful glance when he mentioned not wanting to be a fag. And touching his face…. That was not a heterosexually comfortable thing to do. Not for most guys, anyway. On the one hand, he could be a pitiful case of shameless, way, way deep in the closet and hiding what appeared to be a sexual interest in Harry (in which case, Harry didn't even know if he'd want to go along with such a thing), _or_ he could be a case of the super awkward, but entirely heterosexual teen, who's just trying to make a friend, and going about it in all the wrong ways (in which case he would probably go running and screaming to the whole school if Harry inadvertently made a move based upon a misinterpreted understanding).

_Ah, the dramas of teen life_, Harry thought wryly.

Tucked underneath the warmth of his covers, however, Harry took this moment to favor the first of the two possibilities. What if Michael _was_ interested in him? He was certainly cute enough. With a nice build, too. Much better than Harry's. He would be stupid to pass such an opportunity on. But what if Michael freaked out halfway through and back out, calling Harry a fag, and denying all homosexuality? Harry got the sense that Michael could be that kind of guy. After all, he was quick to denounce "faggotry" back at the edges of the schoolyard. Even if he were gay, he could turn on Harry and make his life a living hell.

Or if he didn't, but people somehow found out, then both their lives would go to shit, and they'd be ridiculed for the rest of their high school careers.

"Ugh!" Harry moaned, disgusted and frustrated. He hated this. Why did things have to be so complicated? Were he straight, people would be rooting him on for being sexual, for knowing what he wanted and going after it. Why did this have to be any different?

He let out a heavy sigh and wished for a way to rebel. Well, there were a million ways to rebel, but he wanted a way to rebel in which he wouldn't get the life beaten out of him. Or have to have sex with countless nameless men. He was definitely done with that phase of his life.

Glaring at the wall, he idly scratched between his legs before smirking mischievously. Well, of course he could rebel without getting beaten. In fact, he could do it right here, from the very comfort of his own bed. He squeezed his hand more firmly around the slowly stiffening base of his length and focused, trying to recall the precise details of Michael's face. Just squeezing. He liked to wait until his fantasies alone made him fully erect before helping the process along. Gay or not, the lithe track runner was totally free for him to fantasize about.

He remembered first his laugh, and so tried to envision his pink lips, slightly stretched into an open smile, the bottom lip dipped into a subtly pouty curve, the upper lip thin in an appealingly masculine way. The mouth opened wider in his mind, turned rounder, and he couldn't help but let his thoughts stray to less chaste imaginations. He felt himself fully stiffen. Perfect. He started tugging, now.

Then he moved up towards the nose, thin and narrow, perfectly straight, and nicely curved around the tip. He wanted to lick a line up that perfectly straight length. That particular word choice led him back to other thoughts, and he momentarily jerked out of rhythm. His breath was unsteady. He was feeling increasingly aroused, now.

He decided to skip the rest of Michael's face and just start thinking about his body. That was always the best part of the fantasies. He wanted to imagine what he would do, what Michael would do, how they would both sweat and pant and moan and jerk and … and… he was so close, now. He wanted to hear Michael beg for Harry to fuck him. He wanted to hear Michael moan it till he was on the verge of whimpering with the need for Harry.

(This, Harry always thought odd considering the fact that he had thus far always bottomed. Perhaps it was a case of always feeling like he should play the "submissive" role as the younger of the two participants. Perhaps he was a closeted top. In any case, it was almost always him on top in his fantasies, and he inevitably loved to hear the other beg to be taken. He loved the way it made him feel. Manly, he thought sardonically. He didn't question it. After all, it was a fantasy. Who was he to deny his primal subconscious desires?)

"God, Harry, fuck me. Fuck me, please! Fuck me harder, fuck me harder, fuck me harder!" he imagined in that incredibly thick American accent. He was too close. This was the part where his fantasies scrambled into nothingness so that he couldn't even properly imagine a scenario, just a string of words, usually the same, one phrase, repeated over and over and over again until he was spent. He felt himself teetering over the edge, but as always inevitably happened, he thought of the face of his fantasy partner just as he came, and the low that pummeled through him an instant later was nearly as powerful as the pitifully short-lived high that had taken him in that final instant of fantasy.

He had seen Michael's large, gray eyes, nervous and questioning, unique in their own way, but oh so similar to Draco's that he could not fight the wave of nausea and depression that suddenly hit him. God, Michael looked so much like him. It was like someone in the universe was taunting him! The same blond hair, gray eyes, pale complexion. The only difference seemed a few years and their totally different personalities. Then again, Harry had never met Draco as a teenager.

He gave a terribly heavy sigh and rolled over onto his side to try to ride the depression and exhaustion into a quick and dreamless sleep. He could worry about moping later.

* * *

"Oi, Paully boy. Get yer ass over here fer a second," Johnny called.

"I told yeh, stop calling me that!"

"Shut yer face and come 'ere. We aint foolin'." Tommy cut in.

"Hurry up!" Karl added.

The four were alone in Paul's cell, momentarily left in relative solitude.

"What do yehs want?"

"What the bloody fuck is up with that rat bastard wanker messing with yer friend?"

"So yeh've noticed."

"Damn fucking right we've bloody noticed. I damned near broke the pisser in half the moment I saw him."

"Fucking pisser attacked yer friend right in front of everyone's eyes!"

"Yeah, he does that."

"He does that? And you haven't seen fit to fucking do anythin' about it?"

"What kind of fuckin' friend are you? I thought we raised you better 'an that!"

"Well, what the fuck do yehs want _me_ ter do? I can't fight worth half a damn, and you all know it! I's been waiting fer you all ter get in here so I could enlist yer help!"

"We been here fer a whole fuckin' day, now. When exactly were you plannin' ter ask us?"

"When Draco wasn't around!"

"Why the hell would you have ter wait till 'e wasn't around?"

"Because. I know him. He wouldn't want any trouble if it was up ter him. He's close to gettin' out. He's just holdin' on ter that. But I don't think it's right. I don't think it's right that fucker gets away with it. I think he needs ter be shown a lesson. And while Draco's still here. So that he can fuckin' show the poor bloke some decent respect the last few days he's here."

"Oh, we'll teach 'im to show some respect, alright."

"Yeah, we'll put 'im exactly in yer poor friend's shoes."

"He is doing what we suspect he's doing, isn't he? Playin' the fuckin' soap?"

Paul nodded grimly. "All the time. He's made it so that he practically owns Draco. No one's allowed ter touch the poor bloke but him. He takes him when he wants him, where he wants him. Don't matter if no one's around ter see. In fact, I suspect he sometimes makes sure people are around to see. To stake his claim, yeh see?"

"That fuckin' tosser." Johnny spit violently at the floor.

"We'll give 'im a nice, healthy dose of 'is own medicine." Tommy added.

"Yeah, and we'll make sure the dose is nice and big." Karl grinned maliciously.

Paul felt queasy in his stomach, almost thought he was ready to throw up, but he swallowed down his unease. He thought it was only fair; had to believe it was so. For Draco's sake. For his own sake. The three stronger men began to plan amongst themselves, and Paul tried to steal himself, a determined look in his eyes as he listened. He wasn't meant for this kind of thing. He truly wasn't. But he had to do it; he had to make sure things were set right. And this was right, wasn't it? An eye for an eye and all that religious crap…. He was doing the right thing. Right? Somebody had to stand up for Draco.

A few minutes later, the blond walked into the room, a forced smile on his face, a little puffiness around the eyes, and Paul knew. He just knew. He knew the way he always knew. H knew the way a twin knows when his other half (the only true kind of half there is in this world – not that psycho babble love bullshit half) has been hurt, has felt pain, has passed away. He knew without a doubt in his mind. And his strength resolved tenfold.

As Draco walked in, trying but failing to mask his slight limp, Paul knew. As his friend muttered a small greeting, his eyes aimed at the wall, at the floor, at anything but him, he knew. He knew with a conviction that no amount of persuasion would change that this had to be done. It was no longer a question of right and wrong of justice or not; it was simply what he had to do. Like a prophet sent to earth with a mission exempt of all questioning, all reason, or contestation. This was his duty. To protect his friend. It was about Paul punishing Smitty for the wrongs he had committed.

As Draco wordlessly passed Paul a carefully sealed envelope, pulled out from his secret storage just underneath his arm – of course Smitty never bothered with shirts – Paul prayed to God that whoever Draco's mysterious pen pal was, he was truly out there waiting for Draco, and ready to pick up the broken, shattered pieces.

* * *

**AN:** Woohoo! Stuck to my promise! An update! And within two (or was it three) days of making said promise! Yahoo! And can you believe, I had so much fun doing it! Not because I don't usually have fun updating, but just because, for the first time in a LONG time, I wrote the chapter without overanalyzing it. I didn't worry about an outline or getting everything just write. I just went with the flow, and it came so much more naturally! Woohoo! I could definitely see getting onto a more frequent update schedule again.

Also, NOTE: The last section is written in Paul's POV. I don't necessarily or not share his views or opinions. I mean no offense by the religious or otherwise comparisons made in that section.

**IMPORTANT NOTE:** In case you didn't read this at the top, I actually started writing the masturbation scene as an NC-17 type deal, and then realized I was on fanfiction(dot)net! So of course I erased it all and started again. However, I'd be interested in exploring the realm of NC-17 fiction (since I certainly read it often enough ;p), **so if you're interested in reading an NC-17 version of that scene, please let me know in a review with your email**. If enough people declare an interest, I'll write one up and send it to everyone. ^_^

Anyway, as usual, please read and review!

xoxo Spideria xoxo


	11. Chapter 11

**NOTE: Looking for a beta**. Hey everyone, as you know, I've been extremely terrible with keeping up regular updates and keeping the flow of the story. I'm looking for a beta – someone who will be there to keep me motivated and even give me the rough kick every now and then to sit my butt down and start typing. If you're interested, please find more information on respsonsibilities and how to "apply" in my profile. Thanks!

* * *

**Rolling Seasons**

**Chapter 10**

**Spideria**

* * *

Lily sat at her cubicle desk, unable to get any work done. Another letter had arrived today, and she couldn't bring herself to open it. She knew she should. That pervert might be getting out soon, and if he mentioned the date in the letter, she wanted to know.

But she just couldn't do it.

She toyed with the thought that perhaps if she did not open it, then it did not exist. After all, if no one read the letter, wasn't it as if it had never been sent? She couldn't be sure.

She had wanted Harry to stay home today. Had wanted to take the day off and spend it nursing her poor son's face, helping him heal. But of course, Harry had wanted no part in that plan. He had yelled that it would only make him out to be more pathetic than he already was if he had to take a sick day after just one punch. And she could understand that, as much as she disagreed with it.

She knew she was making a bigger deal of things than what they actually were. All children got into a few scuffles at one point or another in their lives. But she couldn't help think that this was something more than a random fight. She worried that the fight had revolved around something that she knew Harry was still all too sensitive to acknowledge aloud.

Had they found out about Harry's sexuality?

The thought terrified her. Not because it embarrassed her. Not at all. She had long since come to terms with her son's choice, or rather, preference. That was the more political term, she had to remind herself. As she had read in a self-help book some time ago, _Loving your Gay Son_, it was not a choice to be gay, but a happenstance. As uncontrollable as one's eye color or height. And she accepted that.

But she knew that others wouldn't. She, herself, had never come upon the topic of homosexuality while in school, but she could only imagine how badly her schoolmates would have reacted had there been a rumor about someone. And it was no doubt worse today. She knew what happened to openly gay teens. Every day, she saw new stories of gay teens physically bullied to the point of torture. Broken arms, burned with cigarettes, hateful messages carved into flesh. There had recently been a bout of gay teen suicides, and the thought absolutely terrified her. Here were young, beautiful children, just barely on the cusp of adulthood, and their peers were literally killing them with their abusive behavior.

Gay youth hotlines and support groups had sprouted up all over America, and their announcements were unavoidable. Aside from bullying, the number one reason for gay youth suicide was feeling alone and outcast, the fear that no one viewed them as a human being, the belief that people would truly be happier without them alive. And she feared that if she did not rebuild her relationship with Harry soon, it would not be long before he, too, fell prey to thoughts of self-harm.

But she did not know what else to do. She had tried being nice. She had tried waiting for him to warm up to her. She had tried letting him ride out this phase, but nothing had worked. It was time she took more assertive action. She could not spend the rest of her life making up for the disastrous turn of events nearly one year ago. She was going to rebuild her relationship with her son even if she had to tie him to a chair until he listened.

And as for one persistent Draco Malfoy, there would be no more beating around the bush. Why try to forge Harry's handwriting when she could simply write him, herself? She would write Malfoy and tell him just exactly what she thought of the situation. But she would do it slowly, and she would do it calmly. She would analyze his letters and assess the best strategy for execution. If he really did love Harry as much as he claimed, she would just have to convince him of the total destruction his existence posed to Harry. He had to understand that he was in the wrong, and that he was ruining Harry's life.

* * *

"Mr. Draco Malfoy, is it?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Do you understand the purpose of this meeting?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Please explain it to me as you understand it."

"I'm here today to prove that I am adequately prepared to reenter the civilian world."

"Wrong. You are here, Mr. Malfoy, so that we may determine whether or not you have been successfully rehabilitated." _Pause._ "It says here that you have earned yourself early parole eligibility due to good behavior. Courteous conduct with the guards, no fights with your fellow inmates. Tell me more."

"Well, I… it's just as it sounds. I do as the guards ask and stay out of trouble during the time in between…. I'm sorry. I don't exactly know what else you want me to say."

"Well, to so successfully avoid trouble all these months, you must have made quite a few friends here. What has been your prison experience?"

"I… It's been fine."

"Oh, Mr. Malfoy. You're going to have to do a great deal better than that if you wish to convince me."

"There have been… difficulties. I haven't gotten into any physical fights; that much is true. But that isn't to say that I haven't encountered a few challenges along the way. I simply… try not to instigate them."

"How so?"

"Well, prison culture is such that disagreements often occur randomly and without warning. Many prisoners feel the need to prove themselves through… less than wholesome ways. When this happens, that is, if I inadvertantly upset someone or attract negative attention to myself, I try to assuage the person. If they want a particular seat, if I'm standing in their way, I don't argue. I just do what they want."

"Surely that deals a great blow to your ego, Mr. Malfoy. Why don't you fight back like so many other prisoners?"

"Because it's not worth it."

"Not worth what, exactly?"

"Everything. My goals, my dreams, my life. Prison is not my life. I have plans after this. This… this is a temporary and highly unfortunate break from the real world for me. As long as I am here, my life is on pause. There's nothing for me here. I have to get out in order to move on. And I will. At some point, I'm going to get out of here, and I'm never coming back. And the sooner, the better. So if I have to set my pride aside and let it take a couple of blows in order to make that happen, I have absolutely no objections. Winning a fight or holding my ground won't make me a better man. Because who you are in here does not matter out there. It's ten times more valuable to me to be a free and humbled man than a powerful and respected prisoner."

"Well, it seems that you've acquired a few strong opinions during your time, here. Would you say that they've been to your benefit? Have you _learned_ anything from your incarceration?"

"… I suppose."

"You suppose?"

"I've definitely learned to appreciate things more. Like freedom."

"Yes, but have you learned anything regarding your reason for incarceration?"

"…"

"Mr. Malfoy, it says here that you were incarcerated for the statutory rape of a minor. Your own student."

"Those were the charges."

"Oh? Is that to say that you think them incorrect?"

"I… no."

"No what? Please clarify your meaning."

"I am not arguing the charges."

"If we allow you early parole, do you think that you might be likely to commit such a crime again?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because… that was a mistake. It should never have happened, and I know that now. I was his teacher. I should have played my duties as an adult better. But I didn't. And now I've dealt with the consequences."

"Pedophilia is a very serious issue, Mr. Malfoy."

_A low, tight whisper._

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, I'm _not_ a pedophile."

"Oh, no? Then what exactly does one call a man who rapes an underaged boy?"

"It wasn't like that!"

"So you didn't have sex with a minor?"

"I – yes, I did, but –"

"Then it appears to me that it was exactly like that."

_Tense pause._ "I apologize…. You're… you're right."

"Right about what?"

"…"

"Mr. Malfoy, I asked you a question."

"I don't know."

"You don't _know_ what I'm right about?"

"Look, ma'am. Please. You asked me if I am likely to commit this crime again, and I said I wouldn't. I understand that it was wrong, and it won't happen again."

"Did you not realize that it was wrong at the time?"

"No. I mean, I did. But I was stupid. I let my emotions overpower my sense of rationale, and I ploughed on without considering the consequences. But I won't do that, again. I've learned from my experiences here that some things just aren't worth it. Sometimes you have to ignore your emotions and stick to reason."

"Do you mean to suggest that your only reason for following the law is fear of the consequences rather than a true respect for what is right versus what is wrong."

"No, that's not -. I didn't mean that. I just meant that... before, I knew the difference between right and wrong, but didn't care. I gave no regard to anything but the moment, the now. I didn't realize that there were consequences beyond those directly related to me; that other people would have to deal with the results of my actions as well. So when I say that I now consider the consequences, I mean that I now realize that doing what's wrong will have a negative impact on numerous people. And that's not something I want to be responsible for.

"If you had the chance to go back, would you do it again?"

"…No. I wouldn't."

"Alright, Mr. Malfoy. I think I've heard enough for my questions. Mr. Thompson?"

"Ah, yes. Mr. Malfoy, reintigration can be quite difficult for many newly released prisoners. What are your plans for life after prison? How will you go about reincoporating yourself into the daily life of…"

* * *

As soon as the security guard had led him back to the prisoner area, Draco fled straight for his room. After that questioning session, he needed a cigarrette. Bad.

He hadn't expected it to be quite so horrible. He'd been on good behavior his entire stay in prison; he'd thought it would be a quick and easy conversation, carried out more as a formality than anything else. And to be perfectly honest, the questions themselves had not been all that terrible. But the accusations, and his own responses…. That had really bothered him.

Pedophile.

Was that what he was?

After the trial, he had tried to forget everything, tried to forget all the conflicting emotions. He'd tried so hard, he'd literally cut Harry out of his life for months, trying to erase the painful memories. Of snarled accusations, disgusted frowns, spitting faces. He didn't want to see himself as what those people said. He didn't want to be a disgusting, abusive pedophile. It just wasn't true. He didn't dream of little boys, and he certainly would never rape anyone, regardless of age.

But then why did he feel so guilty every time he actually sat down to think about it?

He had thought about it during the trial. Had been forced to think about it. Thousands of people shouting vitriol at him from across the nation. People depicting him as a pervert and rapist on TV, to his face, in court. At one point, he began to believe the prosecuting lawyer. Had he ruined Harry's psyche for life? Would Harry grow up miserable and empty? Would he forever feel disgusted at the slightest touch of intimacy?

He tried to defend himself. He tried to argue that it wasn't rape. Harry had wanted the relationship every bit as much as Draco. Right? But that only made him sound like those crazy NAMBLA advocates. God, what if he _had_ deluded himself? No wonder Harry wasn't writing back. Harry might be trying to put the pieces of his life back together, and here he was, invading his life like some psychopathic stalker.

But that couldn't be true. It just couldn't. He had really _felt_ something with Harry. Something shared. And he wasn't some six year-old boy who couldn't make up his own mind. He was _sixteen_, for Christ's sake! He was a few _months_ from qualifying as a legal adult. Why did three months rule the difference between two, happy lovers and a rapist pedophile? If the law had ruled sixteen the age of consent, would Harry's judgment and ability to make decisions magically have increased tenfold? It just didn't make sense, and it wasn't fair!

He wasn't a pedophile, and he certainly wasn't a _rapist_.

That last thought made him shudder. He was disgusted by the idea. He had literally felt queazy at the mention of it, at the notion that he could have raped Harry. Because _that_ was not rape. He _knew_ rape, had become oh so intimately acquainted with it during his stay in prison. And he could not stand that thought of having put Harry through this very same existence.

Because rape was awful. It was a blight on his entire existence. He woke up every morning to the feeling of disgust and worthlessness. He felt _dirty_. He wanted no one to touch him, and when his anger built, it was not directed towards a heartless, laughing man. It was directed at himself. He was the stupid one. He was the cowardly idiot for _letting_ Smitty take advantage of his body.

Smitty didn't rape anyone else. No one else called attention to themselves like he had. He must have done something to deserve it, to ask for it. A look, a word, something. And he hated himself every day for it.

So no. He could not stand the thought of having raped Harry. Of having put him through the same pain and self-loathing he, himself, went through every day. Because if he had…. Well, he didn't want to think about that.

As he reached the corner by his cell, he was momentarily distracted by the sound of heated whispering. It was coming from his right, from Paul's cell. In fact, ever since Paul's cousins had arrived, the whole lot of them had been acting rather strangely. Almost secretive. Every time he walked into a room with them, it was as if everyone suddenly ran out of things to say. Or (as was much more likely the case) as if they had abruptly cut off a conversation.

He knew it wasn't anything he should be frightened about. They certainly weren't plotting any deathly attacks with him at the center of it. At least, he hoped not. He didn't exactly think Paul would have his cousins beat him up for knicking one of his cigs earlier this week. He hoped.

Still, he was curious to know what their whispering was about, and it would serve as the perfect distraction from his quickly downward spiraling thoughts. But first, a quick smoke. He could eavesdrop on Paul and his cousins later. Or not at all, if he knew what was good for him. He really shouldn't be sticking his nose in anyone else's business, as he had well learned over his months here.

He lit the cigarette and took a long, relaxing breath, but didn't stay for long. His roommate was absent, and it was never a good idea to be alone. He strolled back to Paul's cell and cleared his throat loudly a good five feet from the entrance. He didn't want to appear like a sneak.

As he'd suspected, the conversation immediately came to a halt, and Paul darted his eyes around nervously for a moment before turning to Draco with a nervous grin. "Hey there, Draco."

"Hey, yourself. Johnny. Tommy. Karl."

"Hi there, mate." Johnny.

"Hey." Tommy.

_Grunt_. Karl.

"Er…" Paul began, fumbling for something to say. A light seemed to flash in his eyes before he smiled and exclaimed, "Oh, right! Your parole hearing was today! How'd it go, mate?"

"Good, yeah. Everything was approved, and I'm set for release in three weeks. April 17th."

"God, I'm jealous! I won't even get a hearing for another four _months_!"

"And who the hell's fault is that?"

"Aw, shut it, Tommy."

"Well, I guess that means we'd best speed up this process, then."

"What process?" There ensued a brief silence in which Paul shot Johnny a withering look that quite clearly said _Shut the bloody hell up_. Johnny simply rolled his eyes, while Karl seemed perfectly content to keep picking at a scab. It was obvious that this had something to do with the suspicious whisperings he'd been hearing all week. Until this point, Draco hadn't really bothered to pry into their business, figuring it was none of his concern; but this sudden development now had him convinced that it did, in fact, concern him, and he wanted answers. "Paul?"

A panicked look flitted across his face and he quickly averted his eyes beyond the metal bars of his cell. "Uh, nothing, Draco. Don't listen to these twats. They're fucking madder than a bat."

Johnny scoffed at that, followed by a sigh from Tommy, who turned to Paul. "Why can't we just tell 'im? It's not like 'e's gonna be able ter stop us."

"Tell me _what_?" He couldn't help the slight whine that tinged his voice.

"_Nothing_, Draco. So why don't you just shut yer big, fat mouth, yeh fuckin' twat!" He sent the last curse in the direction of his burly cousins. At Draco's persistent gaze, he added, "Look, mate. Yeh really don't wanna get into this. Just trust me, alright?"

"Why?"

"Because. Look, it's just some old rivalry shite, and it's best if you don't know nothin' about it, okay? You're about ter get out, and if anyone gets wind that you knew about any o' this, you could get into a fuckin' mess o' trouble an' ruin your early release. So just stay out of it. Please."

He was right, and Draco knew it. He couldn't afford to get mixed up in anything that didn't smell cleaner than a batch of freshly picked roses. So he would stop asking.

But that didn't mean he could make himself stop thinking. Unable to carry on a conversation with such a blatant secret still fresh in the air, he bid the four good-bye and went for a walk down to the common area on the third floor. There were always guards there, and it made him feel (relatively) safe.

Along the way, he played the conversation over in his mind. Paul had said it was just something to do with rivalries, which was a likely enough story, given that the three cousins had spent so much time in prison already. And it made sense that Paul wouldn't want to risk ruining Draco's early release. He had always looked out for Draco that way. But then why all the nervous looks? Why all the secrecy? Why hadn't Paul just told him straightforward from the start? It wasn't like him to tiptoe around Draco like that, and it just didn't add up.

It didn't matter. He was getting out in three weeks, and he really shouldn't let himself get caught up in such trivialities. He should be thinking about his plans post-prison. The Parole Board had forced him to think about just this topic, and he had come up with standard answers easily enough. But what did he _want_ to do?

The government would set him up with a minimum wage position to be announced on the day of his release. He would begin immediately, and live in a small apartment shared by two other ex-convicts until he could afford otherwise. It wasn't ideal, but he would just have to make do for the first few weeks. Or months. He shivered at the thought.

He had some money saved up, but he had spent so much during the trial and paying fines that it wasn't anything to brag about. He would definitely have to save up before he could do anything substantial.

Worse yet, part of his parole stipulated that he wasn't to leave the country for the next five months. It was part of his probation, and it bothered him to no end. He could not be stuck in England when Harry was half way across the globe. That is, if Harry even wanted to see him again.

Sometimes he amazed himself at how remarkably laughable this entire situation seemed to be. He had been in several relationships before meeting Harry, and he could not envision having suffered so much just to be with any of them. He wondered what made Harry so special to him? _Was_ he actually that special to him? Or was it just the circumstances that forced him to think so? Did he genuinely love Harry so much he would have given up everything no matter the circumstances, or was it only because everyone seemed so absolutely against their relationship that he felt all the more attracted to it?

He didn't like to admit it, but all these months away from Harry made him sometimes forget what it was exactly that he felt for him. He knew in his memory that he had at one time felt a burning desire to be with Harry, but he could not remember why. He could not remember the subtleties of Harry's face, the feel of his form, the quirks in his facial expressions or body movements. He could not remember Harry's laugh, or whether or not he had had a special charm. All he could remember was that Harry had once inspired something in him, and he hoped that it would hold true when (if) they finally met again.

Because that was one of his greatest fears. In his imperfect, human approach to remembering Harry, he sometimes wondered if he wasn't distorting the memory and falling for someone who did not exist. What if the Harry he imagined was nothing like the real Harry, but a perfected fantasy? The truth is, he had only known Harry for a few, brief months, and it was not until the end that they had come together. He had never lived with Harry or spent dates out in public with him. He didn't know if Harry was always so timid and nervous, or if that had only been a result of their particular circumstances. Did Harry actually have a fantastic sense of humor, or was he always so quiet and shy? Was he still the same now? Had he changed?

All things taken into consideration, Draco had to admit that if he was truly honest with himself, it was entirely possible that he did not actually _know_ Harry.

* * *

xoxo Spideria xoxo


	12. Chapter 12

**A special thanks to my new beta, ****, for her constant enthusiasm and motivation.**

**A second, last-minute thanks to one of my lovely reviewers, Leigh, for badgering me to "get [my] ** in a chair and just start typing!" I appreciate the love. ^_^**

**Rolling Seasons**

**Chapter 11**

**Spideria**

Harry wished he could say he had awoken Saturday morning to the sound of melodious chirping in the air and the rich aroma of newly bloomed flowers unfurling through his room; instead, he awoke to the deafening sound of a crying baby somewhere outside and a blinding yellow reflected off stubborn, hardened snow. God, he hated New Jersey.

He made to roll out of bed before a sticky feeling between his legs made him blanch in disgust. He hated waking up dirty – despite the fact that he should have been used to it by now. He had spent the last three nights wanking himself to sleep, a certain young track star running through his mind. Pun possibly intended.

Although the bare logic of it made sense – young track star equals hot, therefore Harry fantasizes about said track star – the whole thing seemed quite paradoxical – even absurd – to Harry. Although he spent every night mentally fucking Michael every which way he could imagine – and he could imagine a _lot_ – he spent every day planning just exactly how to avoid him.

It had only been three days since Michael had thanked Harry for defending him – Harry still thought it had been an utterly stupid decision – and yet it felt as though Harry had been running from him for weeks. He caught him between classes, during lunch, after the final bell, and even on the way to the loo. Well, actually, Harry had run into Michael that time, but he wouldn't have put it past the other boy to have _planned_ to be there when Harry arrived. It was as if he had somehow gotten a hold of Harry's schedule and plotted out the perfect plan of attack.

At first, Harry had tried to get away with a mere nod of acknowledgement, but as Michael tried more and more persistently to get Harry to actually _talk_, Harry had abandoned all semblance of propriety and just begun making stark and obvious U-turns each time he saw a wisp of blond.

He hoped the message – whatever exactly it was – would come across clearly sooner or later.

For now, he tugged his briefs off with a grimace before tiptoeing his way to the bathroom. A quick glance at his digital desk clock told him it was still obscenely early. One of the great joys of having no friends to "party" with on Friday night: he inevitably fell asleep at 9 o'clock out of sheer boredom, only to wake up the following morning at 5:45 AM. Sarcasm definitely intended.

On the other hand, it did allow him to walk around the house naked and sneak away long before his parents woke up. As he slipped into the shower, he wondered what exactly his prospects for fun were on an early Saturday morning. For an infinitesimal, oh so very tiny moment, he thought of the school track field.

Since meeting Michael, it seemed that Harry's ears had become super sonic tracking devices, subconsciously tuning in to every conversation and picking out any mention of track. And apparently, it was all anyone talked about during this time of year. Using his newfound – and totally unappreciated – tracking skills, he had gleaned much about his school's track team.

Not only was Michael a star runner, but it seemed that the entire team was some sort of absurd monster on steroids. They had won every team event for the past twelve years, and although Harry thought it a rather primitive sport – if you could even call straight running and no tactics a sport – the entire school appeared obsessed with it. Basketball seemed a mere fancy with which to humor the "less talented" members of the student athletes.

The coach that ran the team was a die hard track alumn who refused to leave even after the school forced him to graduate (five years ago). Although he (Harry couldn't figure out his name. He had once thought he'd heard the word "socks" used to refer to the young coach, but of course that made no sense. Maybe "Knox"…?) had technically replaced the now retired coach (Finch), the two trained the team together. Practices were brutal and frequent.

So frequent that they extended to Saturday mornings.

Starting at 6 AM.

But this thought only very, very briefly flashed through Harry's mind, and then it was out, quicker than a messy-haired child running from a comb. That this quick thought kept flashing through Harry's mind so frequently it almost _seemed_ –but _only_ seemed – as if perhaps he was just having one long thought about Michael's early morning practice was of no consequence to him.

Because, of course, there was no way that he would race through the rest of his shower, rip his clothes onto his still wet frame, shove on his trainers, and slam through the front door in a frazzled attempt to make it to the track team's Saturday morning practice.

There was just no way.

Twenty minutes later, Harry wondered just exactly how masochistic a person could get.

What the _hell_ was he doing, racing to school at _six_ o'clock on a Saturday morning? He gazed out for a moment, panting slightly as he took in the school entrance view, just 20 yards away. The field lay behind it, and although Harry had never really stopped to think about it, he assumed he would have to enter through the front of the school and exit out the back entrance in order to reach the field.

Was the school even open at this time on a Saturday morning, or did the track team have a special key to get through the field gates?

_Well done, Harry_, he thought sarcastically. He amazed himself at his capacity for sheer failure in the realm of forethought.

He was on the verge of leaving when a series of whistles caught his attention. He was sure it was the ones used to signal the start of a run. Furrowing his brows in a moment of consternation, he finally decided that it was at least worth a try.

He shrugged and jogged past the last few yards to the entrance and with a deep breath, grasped the handle firmly between his left hand and pulled. He was met with immediate resistance as the lock clanged loudly against the door. He stood still for a moment, his hand still gripping the handle, as he tried to stifle a rising wave of dismay.

_It's for the best_, he thought, and finally let go.

But before he had moved two paces, a blur of green flashed across his peripheral vision, and he turned to see a distraught looking boy running around the side of the school. His too-short shorts and violently bouncing gym bag gave him away, and Harry tried to follow him as surreptitiously as possible. He jogged behind him to the edge of the right side corner, and then peeked around just in time to see the other boy disappear through a side door entrance.

_Well, duh_, he thought to himself before grimacing at the American term.

He waited a few extra moments just to be safe, and then jogged towards the side entrance. With a quick peak inside, he pulled the door and carefully inched his way in.

He found himself in a long and narrow hallway, the walls on either side of him formed by some sort of glossed over brick. Perhaps it was merely wood made out to look like brick…?

With no sign of the other boy or any other doors, he felt immediately claustrophobic; but he forced himself forward in search of another exit. After all, he hadn't come all this way for nothing.

The hallway ended in a sharp right, leading down another tapered hall. He looked nervously back to the only certain escape before plowing on forward. Was it just him, or were the walls getting closer together?

Just as he thought he might begin hyperventilating, he reached a heavy, green door, through whose window he could make out a dingy looking locker room. He pressed his face against the glass to look both ways. It didn't seem as though the boy was still there.

Gently, he pushed the door open and snuck in, turning around to take in his surroundings. It had been almost exactly one year since he'd last been in a locker room, and he had forgotten just how atrociously foul they smelled. He smiled at the thought that if American locker rooms smelled as badly as English ones, perhaps the two countries weren't all that dissimilar after all.

The door suddenly slammed shut behind him, and he nearly jumped two feet in the air. A jerk of his head reminded him that these heavy doors always took several seconds to slam shut, and he heaved a shaky sigh of relief.

He really was getting in way over his head, sneaking into the bloody school locker rooms to get a peak at his new stalker on the track field.

The locker room was quite expansive, and it took him several confused turns to maneuver himself to a potential exit. The door had no window, and so he gingerly clicked it only slightly ajar until the slimmest sliver of sunlight streamed through.

This had to be the field entrance; but he could not be sure how far away he was from the actual field. He didn't want to open the door only to walk right onto it, stuttering out a ridiculous lie to cover up for his presence in front of all the track team. Several moments of indecision wracked his mind before he finally realized how quiet it was.

Which probably meant he wasn't all that close to the field after all, considering the no doubt heavy thuds of feet trampling across the field.

Only slightly less apprehensive, he pushed the door wide enough to slip through sideways, and quickly slipped into a small huddle on the ground, his back tightly pressed against the wall. He wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

Perhaps a hundred yards away from him and about 20 yards below, lay the track field in a valley of sorts, with bleacher seats set stadium style in two semi circles around the various fields.

_Good_, he thought. The chances of someone spotting him were much lower than he had initially anticipated; they would have to look up in order to see his small, huddled form; and even then, they would probably only see him if they knew what to look for.

Just before the closest of the fields, stood the green-clad boy who had led him here in the first place; his arms flailed about desperately as he faced two larger, looming figures – no doubt Finch and maybe-Knox. The rounder of the two coaches pointed his arm angrily in the direction of a distant and unpopulated field, and the boy slumped his shoulders and walked away. Harry could only guess that he had arrived late and was now forced to run laps as punishment.

Although he wasn't quite sure that running laps could actually be used as punishment when the entire practice and sport, itself, revolved around running.

Harry shifted his attention back to the closest field, where perhaps two dozen boys jogged at varying speeds. From this distance, he couldn't tell one from the next, and he once again congratulated himself on his magnificent tact and foresight. What the hell was the point of coming all this way to get a glimpse of Michael when he couldn't even tell which figure he was?

A quick glance at his watch told him it was just thirty minutes past six. _Perfect_, he thought. _Another hour of staring aimlessly at nondescript figures._ It did not occur to him to simply leave.

As the hour rolled past, he began to note the different relationships among the athletes. Unlike basketball, track did not require every member to communicate with each other. It was a lone sport, each runner utilizing his own strategy and never needing to confer with anyone else.

The difference was obvious in the team's chemistry. After each set of laps, the runners huddled into separate groups to stretch and drink. The groups varied in size from two to about seven, except for one boy who always stood a good ten feet away from everyone else. No one made a move to include him.

When the next run took off, Harry kept an eye on him. Maybe-Knox motioned everyone's attention, and select boys stepped forward as he gestured to each one. On his last gesture, the lone boy moved forward, too, and joined the group that had gathered before the coach. After a few moments of speech, the chosen runners spread out across the track and crouched down into position. Harry never took his eyes off the loner.

A whistle blew, and they were off. At first, Harry was surprised by how slow they seemed. Whenever he thought of track, he thought of unrestrained speed, pumping each leg until they seemed as though they might explode. This seemed controlled, restrained.

But as the runners reached the half-way point, they suddenly picked up speed, and it became a real race. Three runners quickly fell behind, another few leveled up somewhere in between, and two runners appeared as though they would no doubt tie for the lead. Having looked to all the runners for a moment, Harry struggled to figure out which of the two was the lone boy he'd been watching. Neither of them looked very much like him.

And then it hit him. At least ten feet ahead of the two boys he'd been watching, ran the loner from before. He made everyone else look positively slow, and Harry wondered why they couldn't just pick up speed like the other boy. He made it look so easy.

This was Michael, he realized, and it was exactly as he'd said. He was the fastest runner on the team – by a landslide.

Harry ignored the tiny leap of glee in his stomach and focused on Michael's racing form. He wished he could see him running up close, see the muscles flexing in his thighs with every lunge he took, the translucent sweat streaking down his pale neck, the rise and fall of his heaving chest.

A thrilling joy rushed through him when Michael passed the finish line, far ahead of the other athletes. He slowed into a light jog before exchanging a few words with the two coaches, each of which patted him roughly on the back.

Harry did not realized what was missing until the other runners passed the finish line. They barely slowed down before the onlookers rushed up to congratulate them. The camaraderie was evident in its contradiction to Michael's solo standing. Harry felt oddly disgruntled by the scene.

He soon learned that track runners did more than just run, after all. He sat through countless sit-ups, push ups, and other toning exercises. It almost made him ache with the urge to push his own muscles once again.

Before he knew it, the track team began uniformly walking in his direction, and he realized the practice had ended. He nearly tripped over himself trying to run out before anyone discovered him. Through the locker room and claustrophobic hallways, and then he was outside once again, trying to figure out his next move.

He had just sat through an hour of admittedly creepy stalking. Was it really logical to just run off without having made any contact with Michael? Perhaps it was less logical to try and explain to Michael why he just so happened to be randomly loitering around the school grounds at 7:30 AM on a Saturday morning.

The sound of voices interrupted his thoughts before he could make up his mind. He ran around to the front of the building, and slipped behind a cluster of nearby trees.

A few familiar faces walked out first, followed by the boy who had gifted Harry with his still prominent bruise and his two henchmen. A few more unrecognizable faces, and then Harry found himself waiting for quite a while before Michael finally stepped out. The blond looked tired, and a little sad, and Harry couldn't help the dip of concern that hollowed out in his belly.

Michael seemed to drag himself in the direction of what Harry could only imagine was his home, and Harry followed. He kept a large distance between them as he trailed behind, not quite yet ready to reveal himself. He couldn't think of any excuse for his presence, but decided he could always just refuse to explain. After all, he had apparently acquired a "mysterious" reputation at school, and this would fit in rather appropriately with that image.

When they finally reached a fair distance from the school, Harry picked up his speed, and called out, "Hey!" The other boy flinched and tensed up, as if preparing for a fight, and Harry slowed his approach, flummoxed. But as soon as Michael saw it was Harry, his frame loosened, and his eyes went wide with disbelief. He searched around for a minute, as if seeking out a clue that this was some sort of bizarre dream before finally breaking into a hesitant, but involuntarily wide smile.

"Hey," he replied tentatively. "What are you doing here?"

As planned, Harry merely shrugged. "Dunno. Just up early. Been walkin' around for a bit."

"Right." His face still revealed confusion, but he seemed to accept Harry's answer.

"So…" _God_, Harry thought. He had no idea what he wanted to say.

"So…."

The two stared at each other for several long moments, unsure of what to say, but neither wanting to end whatever it was that was happening.

"Um," Michael stammered, breaking the silence first. "It's not even 8 o'clock in the morning, yet. Do you, uh… I mean, have you had breakfast?"

"Er… no. I guess not."

"Cool, well... do you wanna…? I mean, my mom always makes really big breakfasts on the weekends – because I run and all, and I mean, I bet your mom does, too, but, oh god. This is gonna sound so dorky. Christ, what am I doing? Um, I mean… well, if you wanted, uh… my house is just, like, a few blocks away, and I don't know where you live, so maybe that's closer, but, um… I don't…. think…. Um, do you wanna, I don't know, like, come over to my house, or something? I mean, if you want."

Michael's face had turned increasingly red throughout his entire, broken speech, and Harry could almost feel the heat radiating off him. He thought it might be mean to laugh, so he didn't. Though only just barely.

It seemed an innocent enough gesture: breakfast on an early Saturday morning. But to hear him stumble through the entire invitation, Harry could tell it meant much more to Michael.

He weighed his options for a moment. He could say no. It seemed the most logical option. It would preclude all complications, and keep things simple.

But it would also keep him lonely and miserable.

He could also say yes. It would complicate things beyond imagination, and terrify him every time he walked through school afterwards. It would make him face things he'd been avoiding for so long, and it almost guaranteed a terrible outcome.

But it also promised a glimpse of relief, of happiness, and moving forward. Why couldn't he just give in? Why couldn't he just follow Michael home like a normal kid with a crush and try to make something happen? Lord knows he wanted to. He'd thought about this boy every day.

It had been so long since he had felt like he had a single friend, so long since he felt accepted. It had been so long since he felt normal, and happy, and loved.

Of course, he didn't think that saying yes to breakfast with Michael equated to normalcy or love or even happiness. But he did think it was a step in the right direction.

So he just smiled and nodded, and said yes with his eyes.

And the two walked up the hill, two feet apart, each pretending they were holding hands.

**xoxo Spideria xoxo**

**** Note: **This kind of felt like a half chapter, so I'm tempted to write the other "half" this weekend rather than leaving you guys hanging about what happens at Michael's house. I'll start typing it up tomorrow. If I get enough reviews, I'll try to finish it up by Saturday night.


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